


Wounded, but not yet broken

by Vuetyris



Series: Operative Warren [7]
Category: Warframe
Genre: Avoidant Personality Disorder, Body Horror, Cannibalism, Emotional Damage, Family Bonding, Father Figure, Gen, Medical Procedures, Meditation, Mental Illness, Mental Instability, Mental Link, Mercenary Father, Merged pain, Mood Disorder, Panic Attacks, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Self-Harm, Self-Hatred, Somatic Link - Freeform, Somatic Transference, Transference Injury, Transference nervous override, after-action patch-up, blood and trauma, merciful death, nervous breakdown
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-18
Updated: 2019-06-22
Packaged: 2019-08-03 20:50:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 25
Words: 107,637
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16333238
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vuetyris/pseuds/Vuetyris
Summary: No more Orokin. No more Somatic Cradle. No more forced self-sacrifices.But scars always take so long to heal, especially if they're dug so deep.[ A strained paternal relationship between father and son, due to financial and emotional stress - specifically in humanizing personality disorders and the associated trauma of being treated like an asset. It is messy, it is distressing, and that's how its like when caught up in mental illness.]





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> -+- Kudos, sharing, and comments are encouraged! -+-
> 
> Tags will be updated over time.

Engines rumble beneath his balling fists as the depth of Warren’s faint flicker of conscious rolls him beneath the blanket, curling against the arch of empty seats and muffled by the ambient hum of idle systems. His joints lie cramped as he pulls the sheets around himself – flinching with the unremarkable twitch of his palm knuckling beneath his face, a mere press of the worn material. It’s an idle notion, one made of restless sleep with tear glued eyes and scruffled hair, worming beneath the shape of a bench rest as his body yearns for comfort.

Toss and turn, he entombs himself from the cold, basking in the trapped heat as he sinks between the delves of consciousness. So still tired… despite the decades of being held captive in a somatic link, every part of him yearns more of numb slumber. Even, as his exhaustion rolls through his hands as they move from fabric to old uniform, his partial awareness lies restrained. Unaccustomed to the sensation surrounding him, the comfort even as his fingers graze up over his throat beneath the fabric, over his face where gauze holds his features safe.

His own jaw, mouth splitting into a grimace beneath the blanket as hands grip around his freed face, able to feel the scarring indentation on his right and the mild graze of exposed teeth on his left.

Beneath the blanket, he fumbles, curling himself against the wall, forehead separated from the cold surface by the blanket he pulls around him, as his feet drift out of their comfortable embrace. He can feel the air through his Orokin derived uniform, the boots worn down and snug kicking back against the wall. He recoils, yanking the blanket around himself, churning back and around to peer beneath the fabric to the room he resides. The quiet that rests around him.

His brilliant blue grazes over the solemn residence, the near empty room save for a few haphazard labeled crates and the vastness of space beyond an overseeing window. Items lie abandoned amongst the floor, kicked about and shoveled off into corners and cracks. Things he kicked away, he assumes, as he looks between himself and the warframe dozing not too far – his arms wrapped with white bandages.

The teen coils himself back beneath the tenderness of the blanket, reverting himself back beneath the arches of the bench he finds himself. Made small, cornered, coveting his solitude as his breath sighs, fingering against the bandage on where he once had a cheek, where flesh was ripped clean from muscle and bone.

An arm shoves itself back, forcing him out of the bench’s shadow.

Warren crawls his way up to sit upon the bench, brushing off the idle dust and remnants of broken glass. A single hand holds itself around the blanket, clutching it against his chest as the fabric hoods his sight, staring out into the depths of space.

Freedom…

Free from the Orokin…

Pulling the blanket around him snuggly, he sighs, a hand landing itself against the bandaging, picking at the tape holding the gauze against his teeth and jaw. It grazes against the scarring at the edge of his lips where the gauze dangles, slowly peeling back in idle thought.

Fiddling, his fingers find preoccupation.

His exhale is slow, questioning as he looks beyond the glass pane and into the vast unknown of the solar system. A place that is almost as displacing as before the Zariman, before the wonder of the vast empire that now languishes in ruins. It’s motions in silence as his thoughts drift between the then and now, of the somatic cradle and the isolation chamber that once made up his life.

No notion of the passage of time, no aging beneath his exhausted features as he pulls the blanket close. No point of reference aside from the loki dozing in the edge of the room.

Warren has no place to belong…

The teenager sighs, yanking the fabric around himself, letting himself recline back against the idle comfort as he fiddles beneath the blanket. His sight stares at the ceiling.

What matter does freedom have if he can’t make sense of it…?

He listens to the hum of the idle systems, the rumbling of engines ignited but stilled in a lazy orbit around celestial gravity. The only notion that repeat as time goes on, endlessly as Warren drifts between the sounds of just existing where he sits now, idle, waiting. Yearning to sink into it, to become nothing but the enigmatic structures making such sounds beneath the messy interior, beneath the walls of lying machines fueled with blazing white. A melding of reality, dozing as he drifts through consciousness back into sleep.

Existing… is so tiring.

Sitting solemnly, indulging into the warmth wrapped around him and the sound of the idle systems, Warren barely adverts his gaze as the loki shuffles in his sleep. Neither does the reactive hiss rouse the teen as T’viska clutches his arms against his chest, bandages stained with dark blood around his forearms. The remnants of the gore held beneath them as the warframe reclines back with a sigh, looking over to where the teen sits on the couch.

T'viska says nothing, at least at first as the systems hum beneath them. And he peels himself from the floor, still holding his arms close and crossed as he drops himself at the tenno’s side.

The silence persists, their gaze shifting off into the vastness of space.

Beneath them the orbiter churns, the cephalon coursing a route to evade a muted combat engagement as it whispers past in its void mask. Engines hum in the empty atmosphere, reverbing through the structure as their breathing is the only sound – the warframe’s tinged with hoarse heaves – still shaking off the pinning pain in his forearms.

“So,” T’viska sighs, sleep deprivation sticking to his words as he barely opens his mouth to speak, fumbling with hesitation and exhilaration – what is he going to say after so long? That the past is behind them now, even as his arms still burn where he stripped muscles with his teeth. “How’re you feeling?” he asks, holding his arms between his body and thighs, flinching in every motion. Even when briefly restored of energy, hours later they still sting – he remarks to himself to change the bandages soon.

“Tired,” Warren sighs, pulling the blanket around himself, hugging his knees up against him as his brilliant eyes glance over to where the loki agonizes at his side. The gauze around his face catches against the blanket, a hand pulling over to hold it against his exposed jaw. “What about you…?”

T’viska sighs, reclining back against the cushions. “I’ve had worse… I think,” he mumbles the last, uncertain how long it’d take for the muscles to regenerate. It hurt even to just move his fingers, nerves stammering with every mild flinch. “Just need some more time to rest, that’s all,” he faintly grins, glancing over to where the tenno huddles at his side.

A frown returns his sentiment.

Warren stuffs his face into his knees, into the crease of the blanket as the ends leave his shins exposed, exposing the uniform he wore under his imprisonment. “Sorry you had to come for me,” he mumbles, words muffling into the fabric. “To come all the way out here for me…” his sight turns down to the floor, making himself small upon the seat.

“Nonsense,” the loki huffs, edging himself over against the tenno’s side. “Lua was going to come back eventually… ever since it vanished, I anticipated it’d come back someday.” He barely mocks a laugh, feeling the melancholy seeping through their somatic link, in the air around them. The warframe’s eyespots barely peek open as he observes the teenager shuffle, barely looking back.

“You mean the moon” is asked half-hearted, through eyes peering back between auburn furls and the dark blanket Warren entombs himself in.

“Yeah. Lua, the moon. It’s…” T’viska pauses, staring back out to the depths beyond the glass. “Suuir,” he calls to the cephalon, “loop the ship around, so we can see the surface.” He turns himself back, elbow easing the blanket off just slight. “Is it too cold, Warren? I’m sure Suuir will raise the temperature a bit.”

“No, I’m fine,” the tenno mumbles, rewrapping himself in the blanket, pressing his covered jaw against his knee. His words ache, “dad… how long has it been.”

T’viska agonizes, holding himself forth with his arms between himself and his thighs. “It’s been… too long I guess,” he sighs. “A lot of things have changed,” he pauses, fumbling over his words, straining to find answers as his forearms still sting. “After the moon vanished, everything changed,” he scratches at his thigh, nervous. “There’s no more Orokin Empire, the last of it fell into ruin after everything was thrown into chaos. After I lost you –“ he pauses, mouth curling between a frown and an anguished snarl.

“I’m just happy you’re alright, after so long,” T’viska sighs, watching the glint of lunar dust flicker past the wide window on the other side of the room. And, after a perceiving moment, as silence saturates the room beyond the hum of the internal machinery, the loki stands, wandering over to the glass as he rounds the crate-turned ottoman that separates the room into two. He looks back, to where the teenager still holds himself tight. “Come here, lemme show you,” the loki offers, nudging his chin over into the direction as the ship rounds into orbit.

Warren’s hesitation does not go unnoticed as he shuffles beneath the blanket, still holding it close as a hand drifts to his covered cheek. The somatic glows from his eyes resound a constant reminder as the illumination pulses in the low light and rebound off the blanket held close to his face. Beneath it, well disguised by the gauze and the blankets placements, he grimaces, sight shifting around. And beneath it, he berates himself, words not muffled yet still conveyed as he begins to ease himself from the couch.

Step by step, the teenager holds the blanket around himself.

T’viska waits patiently at the window, staring out as the moon rounds into the view of the orbiter. It gazes over the shattered golden spires and arches connecting the moon’s pieces, holding the celestial object barely together as the blare of ships run around it in muted spots of lights. Blares of combat are muted by distance, marring the picturesque view with shattering explosions as the ship drifts into a slow orbit.

Warren stares over it all as he drops himself down in front of the glass, sitting beside T’viska’s paws as the loki sighs. “There’s some beautiful places still out there,” he holds his arms against his chest, golden claws picking between the gauze. “Honestly,” he half smiles, “I’ve really been wanting to show some of them to you but… most of them are too dangerous. Especially now…” he heaves, glancing down to the teen. No response, especially as all he can see is the makeshift cowl hooding Warren’s face.

Beneath the fabric, a hand rubs across his face, the tenno’s features scrunched in halved relieve and exhaustion. Tears bead across his eyes, catching themselves in the gauze covering his cheek. Fingers pick at it, peeling at the tape holding the gauze in place. The moon’s brilliant white hiding such dread… stings against his thoughts. Of course, they’d hide their horrors there…

He rubs his cheek. T’viska feels it at his own.

And the warframe frowns. “Are you hungry?” he questions, already certain of the answer.

Nonetheless, T’viska eases himself down into a kneel as his arms remain reoccupied against his body. With is knees on the ground, he can only look down over the blanket hooding Warren’s head, his horns clinking against the glass. “I was going to swing by the relay later – to pick up a few necessities before my next assignment.”

Nothing…

At least not at first as the teenager sniffs, a wrist balling against his face where it presses and pulls down to pick at the gauze on his cheek. “I’m fine,” he briefly chokes; an admitted half-truth as his gut aches but inside he doesn’t feel hungry. As he scowls at his reflection in the glass, the bright lights of his brilliant blue reminding him of the somatic spaces. The cramped compartment beneath folded petals, as his eyes fall shut.

T’viska quietly picks at his own gauze wrapped arms, rattling questions amongst himself as he looks between the glass and the door. His arched horns clink against the glass as he leans forward against it, supporting himself as the ship shifts.

They weave as the engines rumble beneath them, Cephalon Suuir easing the ship from its lingering orbit and yawing the moon tilted from view. And once it finally settles, and as the tenno remains quiet, the warframe forces himself to stand with a grunt, using the glass as a forward support as his claws dig against his skin and the gauze. “I’ll be right back, Warren,” the loki sighs, voice softened as he speaks behind the teenager. “There’s some fresh bandages in the other room,” and he glances back for a moment as he moves towards the door.

Warren never moves, only listening as the door eases shut on the other side of the room. His forehead presses against the glass, eased forth by exhaustion as the blanket is the only thing separating him from the chill of space. His breathing sighs against it, eyes faltering closed as he glances over the lunar landscape, over the rifts that expose secrets the Orokin excelled so well at hiding…

He melts down against it, pulling the blanket around himself as his bandaged cheek presses; and he rolls himself to the side with a sigh.

“I’m so tired,” he heaves, dredging himself through as he tries to think of something else, something beside the tears that echo down over his cheeks. The chill of the glass against the blanket as he coils beside the glass, keeping his gaze adverted from the room and following the spots orbiting the moon far beyond the pane. Pinpoint lights gain and lose his lazy sight one by one, attention diverted to imagination as fluid drips over his chin.

It's only when the door hisses open does he glance away from the objects separated by glass, only for a moment of confirmation as he shuffles back against the glass.

Across the room T’viska continues to wrap his mangled forearm as he approaches, a satchel dangling from a strap haphazardly slung over his shoulder that droops down over his bicep. Dark tissue speckles with agonizing energy before the white fabric is pulled taut over, covering the angry wound as he wounds it closer to his wrist, easing it through his palm before pulling it snug. He does the same for his other forearm, mouth flinching as golden claws flicker against the exposed muscles straining to heal. He leans against the wall on the other end of the glass – gazing out into the depths.

Both of them hover idle as the ship eases over a corpus ship.

It separates them from the glint of the moon, as fragments of the armored shell flickers from bruising blast marks, scraping past as it barely creaks. Fires flicker beyond its shell, leaving a trail of smoke in its wake as it changes course. Suuir is quick to redirect the ship from the beginning of another skirmish.

“Warren,” the loki strains to begin, tucking the bandaging beneath his wrist. The teenager barely moves, head still pressed against the glass.

He’s hesitant.

Through their sympathetic connection he can feel the teenager coil against the glass echo against his skin; the trace of worn-down tears and the figments of thought that aches within his chest.

With a sigh, the warframe kneels at Warren’s side, carefully coaxing the reluctant teen away from the glass, claws digging around the blanket. As Warren props himself into a sit, T’viska settles himself at his side, the satchel dropping down his bicep. “Let me look at your face,” whispers as the loki’s shoulders droop, easing the hood from Warren’s head as the somatic implants stare back.

They only stare for a moment, flickering away as the blanket drifts over the teenager’s shoulders, form slouching. Golden claws dance over the tenno’s face, carefully pulling away the tape holding the gauze in place and unwrapping the cloth that held it all in place. He flinches as wet wipes sting against his gaping wound, wiping at the fluid as it drips over his exposed teeth.

His unending silence for the detailed inspection is not of intended patience – but for uncaring melancholy as he takes a moment to feel over his face. Knuckles flex against the fowl taste leaking into his mouth, rubbing up against his exposed teeth. “I’m hideous,” Warren mumbles before his chin is ensnared by a golden grip.

“No, you aren’t,” the Loki grunts, shrugging off the pain stinging within his arms every time he flexes his fingers. Beneath the wraps around his arms, tendons visibly flex, extending and pulling as the teenager’s sight falls over them. A hand drifts from beneath the blanket, digits tracing against the healing tendons.

“I’m sorry, dad,” Warren mumbles, head yanked up and meeting the loki’s sightless stare.

“Don’t” he grimaces, flickering through trying to determine between his own feelings and the dread saturating through the somatic connection. “Warren, you’ve done nothing wrong to be sorry. It was my decision,” his grip falls between his knees, where the remnants of the old bandaging lies stained with blood. “I went in there to get you… because I wanted you to be alright,” he sighs, falling back against his crossed hocks.

Brows furl beneath the auburn tussle, bright eyes squinting as he tries to choke back the welting tears – his wrist forces them back as T’viska only sits there. Waiting patiently as the skin around his eyespots scrunch, making them appear as faint eyes as a mouth barely hangs open a frown. The teenager’s fingers yield over his face, tracing over the exposed muscle and teeth, faltering to hold back tears as he chokes.

T’viska’s arms drift up… and Warren ensnares them. His fists dig against the warframe’s back as he sobs, pressing his face against the brightly scarred as the bandaged hands hoist against his back.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -+- Kudos, sharing, and comments are encouraged! -+-
> 
> Tags will be updated over time.

Warren sits fumbled back against the couch, staring past the glass on the other side of the room as he holds the blanket around himself. It wraps over his face in a lazy hood, a corner pulled up and crumpled against the exposed muscle and teeth that was once his left cheek. Uniformed feet ball against the cushion, shins held close beneath the blanket as he waits for the loki to return. His sight flickers from the endless distance over to the side as the door hisses on the other side of empty display behind him, a mere surface for the assorted collection of random knick-nacks.

Dropping down with a huff, kicking his digitigrade legs up upon the ottoman surface as he reclines, the warframe sighs. “Suuir,” calls, shuffling himself upon the cushion, “hologram display, please.”

As the glass display dims, somatic eyes turn to T’viska. And flicker back just as slowly.

“Suuir’s a cephalon,” T’viska starts, acknowledging a question he felt coming. “They’re the ship, essentially.”

“Oh,” is all the teen can work out, watching as the external glass coating falls into darkness as light emits around the surface, painting in place a holograph that floods the room with light.

“I found them when I was roaming around for some parts,” the loki recalls, holding a hand out to direct the holograph’s interface to bloom. “They were kind enough to take pity on me – then again Suuir was stuck on an abandoned derelict somewhere on venus.”

‘Your mechanical skills were unsatisfactory,’ reads across the screen.

T’viska follows it with his finger, leading Warren’s sight. “One day we’ll have the right precepts, but for now Suuir can only show themselves through text.” A prismatic tetrahedron flickers beyond the warframe’s cursor, “or imagery,” he mumbles.

“They can’t speak…?”

‘No, I cannot,’ the cephalon responds, flickering back into background operation.

What Warren leaves exposed of his mouth forms a flat line, brows crossing beneath furls of auburn hair in need of a comb. He affirms his knees against his chest, glancing down against the fabric as the warframe draws his fingers through the air.

Across the room the cursor follows the loki’s finger, dancing over monochrome energy yellow over file paths and directories. “They’re in here somewhere…” he fumes, staring past the lines of sub-orokin text for an archive. He rights himself as he browses through for a certain location, flickering past assignment request with a frown. “Too many damn infiltration missions coming up,” groans beneath his breath, eye spots drawing themselves to glow in the low light as a mouth snarls.

Warren watches buried beneath the blankets as T’viska explores through the depths of the ship’s archive – separating itself from the multitude of salvaged info and proof of sabotages, dialogue messages of a mission complete with stipulations. He frowns, somatic sight glancing at the loki sat at his side. “Same old assignments, huh?”

Silence… and a sigh.

“Yeah,” T’viska exhales, resting himself back against the cushioning. “Empire or not, there’s always going to be conflict. When the only thing you know is fighting it’s… hard to find something else… you know?” The tenno looks away, burying himself in the blanket. “After the collapse, everyday was a struggle,” the loki faintly smiles – but its not in encouragement as he finds what he’s looking for. “Even after all these years… its hard to find any stability.”

Looking over T’viska’s eyespots squint, and he looks away once more. He can feel the sadness coaxing through the somatic connection, the resentment seeping as the teenager keeps his sight away from the holographic display. “But, there’s still so many beautiful places out there, Warren. And I’ve wanted to show them to you.”

Across the screen, as two fingers double tap over a brief descriptor in a safely stowed archive, illuminates a terrain glancing out to the ocean, watching over the crashing of waves beneath the fragments of sentient bones. Sound doesn’t play at first as he waits for Warren to turn his sights, a notion marked by an uptick in the somatic link. A brief flick casts it to another photograph, turned to one side to glance at a cliffside, where an Orokin tower lingers in the distance torn by time and pillaging. “Many of them are still too dangerous,” T’viska laments, moving back to the first.

“But, I wanted to show you them,” the warframe smiles, a faint crack in his voice before he presses the outlined button at the bottom of the screen scripted in a language Warren is unfamiliar with. And the video plays –

Ocean waves crash as the remote observer browses over the beach; it records the short etches in the sand, the paw prints made by the loki as the video glances back to the liset parked further up the beach. It sits at the top of a short descent made of sun-stained stones and brief glances of brown sand that leads into the vast ocean. Out crop stones edge the clearing, glancing off to a distant Orokin tower that lies in ruin as a voice over begins to play.

“Warren,” it starts, hitched as the view fiddles, a brief curse dripping as he tries to find a place for the view to sit. “I know you’re just a faint memory right now,” barely laughs, “but I wanted to record this for you – whenever the moon gets back, I at least want to have this for you.” It’s amateur in its production, a single long shot as the remote observer finds itself upon a stone. The warframe sighs as the camera records the sound of stone scratching, a body sitting down beside the device.

At his side, T’viska can feel Warren smile, even as the blankets claw against his face.

“I still got the thought of you to keep me going, even though the system is in turmoil,” sighs above the camera, a location approximation made by the speakers around them. “Whenever you get out – whenever the moon returns – I want to be there for you, kid. It’s lonely enough as it is right now but,” the voice falls silent, “I can’t let you return without anyone to be there for you. There’s already enough unneeded shit you’ve been through, and I can’t just let you suffer anymore after the shit we’ve been through together,” heaves.

The view stays cast out to the ocean, watching as the horizon plays out brilliant reds and violets, recording as a shape hums past the Orokin tower.

In the recording the loki sighs, picking the observer back up. “I’ve got an assignment to get to, Warren,” he talks to the device. “And someday, I hope you’ll see how much you mean to me.”

And the playback pauses, filtering over into the previous image.

“Anytime I found someplace exceptionally beautiful,” T’viska barely chokes, “I recorded it, no matter where ever I ended up. I wanted to take a piece of each of them back with me, so I might be able to show you someday.” Golden claws grip over the blanket, pulling his son against him. “I figured, after all the shit with the Orokin, you deserve a good life. I might not be the solution to that,” his arms fix Warren against his side. “But it’s not going to stop me from trying to be a good dad.”

Tears welt through the somatic connection, the warframe releasing as the teenager pushes back to give himself space.

But he’s at least smiling now.

And that’s all T’viska could ask for.

The loki’s frown meets Warren’s smile; he still has jobs lined up.

Two-toned horns shake the thoughts away as he looks back to the holograph display, a hand holding up to move to the next picture in the set. “Back then I couldn’t afford anything that could capture all around. So, this was the next best thing,” the warframe smiles.

“Where was this taken?” the teenager lights up, following as the images lead back up to the liset, a mimicry of walking back to it broken up by images of blooming flowers.

“Earth, as hard as it is to believe.” T’viska’s fingers drag through the air as he moves through the album. “After the collapse there was nothing being monitored; its dangerous now, but by being careful enough you could spend hours there. Just watching the world go by.” He smiles, remembering the crisp air of the ocean waves, the faint tinge of disturbed foliage and organic rot.

Warren stares out from beneath the comfort of the blanket, entranced by what is allowed to exist outside the Orokin’s dominion as their only trace remains in the crumbles of architecture gold and white. The imagery of control shattered by their structures lying in ruin, of what was once ‘faulty uselessness’ of broken trees growing fruitful beyond where the liset sits.

“Warren,” the warframe speaks, drawing the teenager’s attention.

He holds one arm outstretched, hand in a certain position of two fingers held out, others curled in a relaxed fashion. A tilt of the arm encourages the tenno to mock the limb, but a brief hesitation delays it as it fumbles beneath the blanket.

Once held out, a second cursor finds its way on the screen, following Warren’s hand as he moves around. T’viska drops his own arms holding against the teenager’s back and at his elbow.

“It takes some time to get used to,” he smiles, “two fingers move between the files,” he holds his bandaged arm out beside the uniformed limb. “I’ll see if Suuir can teach you the universal language, at least for these vessels.”

“What’s it called?” cracks from the teenager’s throat, exhausted from crying still.

“Terminus, I think,” T’viska sighs, his arm movements being mimicked by the teenager’s own. “I don’t want to, but after we hit up a relay I’ll need to be off on another assignment.”

“Do you have to?” Warren frowns, their cursors following into another archive of photographs.

“Sadly yes,” the loki exhales, finding them through to another recording – one he’s not as embarrassed about. “They don’t pay much, but it’s just enough to catch up to old loans. I’ve at least got enough saved in a separate account so we can get you a few things at the relay.”

“What’s at the relay?” the teenager asks as he finds himself fascinated with the exposed plant life beyond the rubble of an Orokin tower, the white foliage that had entwined beyond Orokin walls left to swarm untamed.

“A lot,” T’viska smiles, “there’s others out there, like you. And so many others that have grown through the empire’s collapse. Some factions are still fighting out there – but on the relays its peaceful for the most part. They’re independently run from what I know – they got vendors and everything. Bet they have something that fits you.” He jokes.

Warren smiles as he takes control of the archive operations.

Though, after a moment it turns to a frown. “Dad,” he bites as his hand moves over to the next archive in the set, “I don’t want anyone to see my face,” he laments.

“That’s okay, Warren,” the warframe glances over, forcing out a smile as he rustles the teenager against him in a comforting gesture. “I’m sure one of them carries scarfs or something that can cover your mouth. There’s some crates I acquired a while back I’m sure we can make something out of before we go aboard.” The blues of the tenno’s somatic gaze flicker back to meet the loki’s own visionless sight, turning back as he holds the blanket over the snarling side of his mouth. And he briefly nods.

Until then, both father and son brush through the immense number of photographs and videos, reminders of the loki’s persistence to just exist. Even when his voice ran ragged, worn down from exhaustion he had taken the time to capture spectacular vistas. Where videos capture the warframe pelted with the aches of fresh combat traced in healing blue. The scars across him remain a testament at the very least, as the warframe commentates over his own run ragged voice. A voice that almost chirps and chatters rambling at Warren’s side.

The remains of his mouth crease, glancing off to where the loki sits.

For the brief time, Warren is happy. Flipping over to the next image from somewhere further out in the system – a landscape made of slate and snow.

Once the announcement system alerts the vessel’s arrival beyond the reach of the relay, T’viska has Suuir minimize the holographic display. A temporary pause as T’viska still needs to get himself properly dressed. As the door hisses open a green-eyed kavat saunters in, meowing loudly as their claws click against the ground, sniffing as its leaf shaped tail twitches curious. Warren stares out from beyond the blanket. “That’s Crenshaw,” the warframe calls over, “kavat, he’s a curious troublemaker.” A tap against the doorframe keeps the space open as he searches for more suitable clothing.

He’s just as bare as any kavat without a collar; yanking on leggings for the sake of decency as he peers through for something to wrap around Warren’s face. A search that yields in the form of one of many discarded shirts, cutting off the bloody sleeves and hem line before he divides it against one side – trimming off the spattering of dark dried blood.

After he fits a decorative skirt around his waist, stocking two holsters at his waist, he returns to his son, kneeling half upon the couch. He sizes it against Warren’s head, discarding the blanket on the other side of the cushion as the teenager’s hands entertain themselves with the curious creature’s features. Large teeth carefully nip, paws digging claws into the bright somatic uniform as T’viska trims the cloth further to fit Warren better. Firm stitches are made beneath the loki’s golden claws as he sizes it once more before the final stitch, letting the makeshift covering fall around his son’s throat.

Warren holds it around his face, hitching the top over his nose. In testing motions his head pulls back, turns, twists, adjusting the fabric to comfortably drift around across his nose as the somatics glow within his eyes. Wide and bright. Beneath the fabric, he’s smiling.

It makes the grizzled, exhausted mercenary smile in return, pulling him into a tight hug.

As they disembark to the relay, cramming themselves into the much smaller vessel, their conversations are light, diminishing as the drifts into the station.

Onboard, as T’viska approaches a shop keeper, he proudly states “this is my son, Warren,” with a firm smile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -+- Kudos, sharing, and comments are encouraged! -+-


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -+- Kudos, sharing, and comments are encouraged! -+-
> 
> Tags will be updated over time.

Warren felt the pain long before he could see it.

A dull piercing in his side as he read through old documents splayed out by Cephalon Suuir, presiding over him and tutoring through the means of text translation and archived pre-recordings. His hand held against the fabric of his loose top, one of a set T’viska bought for him on the relay; whom had shuttled off to an assignment in a ship the orbiter lingers beyond a void mask. Beneath his skin, it twists, mouth scrunching beneath a scarf he coils down.

The tenno grunts in pain – transferred pain.

All too familiar to him, fist balling against the digital surface.

Righting himself, the green-toned kavat at his side leans over, his head reaching across the teenager’s propped thigh to nip at his fingers. They reach back, curling against the brown fur as the pain seizes in his gut.

On the other side of the room, Suuir’s text alters. ‘Are you alright, Jacob?’

“Just… I can feel what dad’s going through,” clenches between his teeth, “I’ve… gotten used to it, I suppose. Not used to it persisting outside of a cradle though…” he sighs, scratching behind the kavat’s ears, jiggling the creature’s head in a careless manner. Crenshaw allows it, paws pressing out claws into the cushion.

‘Are you worried?’ displays across the screen, transposed over the dialogue of the device Warren holds in his lap.

A brief sad smile flickers over Warren’s expression, “I always am… that’s why I was so ‘reliable’.” He grunts, leaning against the couch with a hand held at his abdomen – feeling blood pour through his fingers. “What’s my dad’s mission status, Suuir?” Brief pains ache against his temple, over his reclining form as he waits for a response.

T’viska’s okay, he forces himself to remember. Warframes can take a severe beating…

‘Four of the five vaults have been breached – the liset is already in position for extraction. Systems are currently connecting to vault four for information retrieval,’ fills the screen held limp in the teenager’s hand. He only acknowledges it with a grimace, lying back over the couch, arm hanging over the edge as the other coils around his stomach.

Crenshaw’s claws tap against the floor as he lands, pushed off by the tenno’s agonizing shuffle.

It claws through his stomach, bleeding over blistered thighs that collide against harsh metal. In his palms he can feel flesh sear, warmed from overheat as the skin in his back burns. His jaws clench, pushing his furls of auburn against the worn white of the cushions, trying to think of something else. Anxiety bleeds as the pain twists, dropping the tablet device to the floor.

‘T’viska has arrived at vault five,’ dances across the holographic screen – language prompts minimized as all the cephalon can do is observe. And wait.

The machine consciousness blips over the holographic screen on the distant wall, coursing through the archival photographs for a notion of calm. It won’t work, but it’s better than doing nothing. Audio resigns mute as a short clip plays in repeat, of an ocean view that distracts the curious kavat more than the languishing teenager biting his lip and whimpering in pain.

Warren can feel shells tear through the skin on his back, burning hot and scorching, fingers digging around the coat’s sleeves in strains. It’s not his pain, his back isn’t burning as its exposed to the chill of the orbiter’s livery quarters. And he coils; hands drifting around his torso and head, grasping at the blisters of pain.

It’ll be over eventually, his thoughts whine, eyes welting. Pain sears through his stomach, hissing as he coils.

“Please be okay,” whispers against his shoulder.

Far from his thoughts, the tablet reads out the cephalon’s faint encouragement. ‘Vault infiltrated, waiting to extract now.’

And all Warren can feel is the blaze of heat, palms slicken against harsh surfaces, pulled into shivers as an object prods inside his gut and twists broken.

He forces himself up.

The scarf goes lax around his throat, unwrapping quickly as he makes anxious inhales, bare fingers digging against the cushions as he pulls himself upright and scrambles out of the room. He stumbles against the wall frames for a moment, biting back an aching in his stomach as he wrestles himself up to the small loading bay where the liset would connect to the ship, beyond a small staircase that’s usually obstructed by the orbiter’s navigation ramp. Resting up against a crate, a hand balls beneath his chest, holding his body against the cool object in a vain attempt to settle the somatic ache.

Warren doesn’t have to wait long, watching as the connecting hatch hitches and golden claws pull a vice around the ramp’s rail.

Through the pain the teenager crosses the distance, taking the warframe’s ragged limb over his shoulder, baring the warframe’s weight against his back as they stumble into the main hall. T’viska’s mouth drips with blood, saturated with red gore not of his own as purple-black oozes down his face. A horn drips from a horrid gash on the outer frame as it lies against Warren’s hair, where it sticks as they move up and past the foundry station.

With a grunt the loki drops down to one leg, crumbling down to the floor in a lean. Warren drops beside him, ensnared by a bloody golden grip that digs against his coat. “Foundry dispenser, drink,” the loki gulps, hand faltering to hold back against the harpoon spear still protruding from his side. Black blood oozes through his fingers as he holds himself propped up, leaning against his other arm as the teenager digs into a crate of alcohol. An easy source of quick energy for T’viska.

Golden claws encrusted with blood grip the bottle fiercely, cracking the glass with his harsh molars before taking a quick swig. After a quick inhale, barely setting the bottle down, T’viska turns back to Warren. “First aid, time to learn how to patch a wound,” the loki barely smiles, swallowing more of the drink stinging against his throat. “By the modification table, should be some pliers and a patch.” Blue energy flickers over his horn, regenerating the fracture and the wound bleeding down his forehead.

Without the ache in his temple, Warren digs out the needed supplies, dragging over the emergency inventory to his father’s side as he crumples to his knees. “Spear first?”

“Spear first,” T’viska swallows, metabolizing a portion of the glass bottle. “Body can’t absorb it,” he heaves himself over, giving his son a fair view of the object sticking from his back and through to the other side of his body. A fair chuckle, trying to find humor in his predicament, “bastard caught me off guard. Guess he forgot his patrol or something.” And a heavy sigh, lying down on his side as his bloody claws split around the harpoon.

Warren grimaces, the warframe’s breathing making the object dance against the merging guttural senses. “You’ll need to pull it out,” the warframe grunts, “don’t use your bare hands,” and the claws not pressing against blood slicken skin motions to a bin on the other side of the foundry. “Should be some cloth in there – I don’t want you getting cut,” T’viska swallows, limb falling against the ground.

A brief nod, and the teen wraps the old bloodstained material around the barbs of the harpoon, yanking the fibers taut against the jagged misshaped edges. His motions are quick as the loki’s breath heaves, eyespots surging in agony they both share. Warren’s features cross as he tries to yank it free from his father’s body, gasping and barely gripping against the somatic pain in his own body. A cough brings T’viska to heave, gripping back against a crate behind him, straining to pin his body into place between the foundry station and the crates as his paws dig and flex, agonizing as the object bumbles its way through his torso, scrapping against his insides as well as Warren’s. The only blood that drips from the teen is from him biting his lip, feet finding place against the warframe’s stomach as he pulls, and pulls, falling back as the object finally pivots itself free from the loki’s torso.

T'viska’s body heaves, hands gripping against the hole in his body as the barbs from his maw flicker aggressive – latching around the languishing bottle of alcohol, crushing the glass as he strains to force himself into a lean. “Gauze,” he groans, crumpling a short stretch of the material against the exit wound, putting pressure against the seeping black blood.

Glancing over, he watches Warren fight back against the transferred agony. “Take your time, Warren,” his maw turns to grimace, dropping the remaining half a bottle back to the floor, metabolizing the shards dissolving within his throat. Their prickling is nonexistence, breaking down as he swallows.

“I’m okay,” the teenager snaps even though the stains of tears welt in his eyes, tracing over his cheek and the exposed teeth. Warren wrestles himself back to T’viska’s side, heaving pressure against the two-halves of the wound as he kneels at the loki’s side. “Should be healed up soon, right?” He pierces back.

Looking over to where bare hands press against the illing black blood, the warframe resigns himself against the floor. “Yeah,” T’viska sighs, burying his face against his forearm, settling to lean against his arching horns. “Might be a while though,” he whispers beneath his breath, tendril barbs catching to resume consumption of the bottle.

Languishing against the floor, T’viska curses himself.

His features scrunch buried beneath his arms.

How could’ve he forgotten about the somatic link like that – hitched up on the thought of hurting Warren. Simply foolish, he snaps within his skull, his breath heaving as the pain still blooms.

Above he can hear the sobs, the occasional snuffle by the teen stopping him from bleeding.

“Warren,” he heaves, peeking between his folded and still wrapped arms. He needs to remember to replace them when he’s able. “You okay?”

“I’m fine,” he mumbles.

“Warren,” the warframe squints, “It’s okay to cry; I for sure know it fucking hurt.”

“Yeah but…” and the teen falters back into silence, glancing over his blood-stained hands. “I just wasn’t expecting it… you know?”

Against the floor the loki nods, holding against his face as warmth grows around his wound. Energy blue flickers beyond the sticking gauze, slowly sealing the wound. “Mhm… I’m sorry about that,” the warframe glances between his limbs, “I’ll be more careful, kid.” He mumbles, an apology and accusation – he fucked up, wasn’t aware of his surroundings and got battered for it. The sting of tracer rounds still ring, and Warren could probably feel them.

Warren squints. Pulling his hands away from the wound, Warren wipes away the drips of dark blood, dabbing off the beads from superficial injuries as the warframe heals. “Do you have another job lined up.”

“Always do,” T’viska grunts, rolling himself onto his back with a sigh. “But it can wait, I usually just let myself heal up before running the next.”

Auburn brows scrunch. “You’re always working…?”

“It’s what I’ve been doing constantly for the past hundred or whatever years,” the sightless face sighs, flinching as his golden claws test against his wound. Still sensitive, not enough energy to fully heal yet. “But as I said, it can wait,” and he glances over, “sorry again, I suppose it’d be better to remain in contact a little better, so you won’t be blindsided by my mistakes again.”

The teenager adverts his gaze, packing up the bloody material. “Yeah.”

Quietly, the loki watches as his son cleans up the sticking gore. With a guiding ease he directs him to where the bloody material goes, how to clean the blood out of his brand new coat and pants, where he’s finicky about where the emergency supplies go until he gives up on directing and slowly pulls himself from the ground with a grunt.

Of course, the pain transfers to Warren.

With a grimace, T’viska pulls down a cache of supplies from an overhead bin far out of his son’s reach, giving him items missing from the first aid cache stuffed between the modification station and the divider. “We’ve got everything we need for now – but to keep the need for resupply down I’ll be more careful. After this one, I’ll probably start taking on surveillance – I hate hand-to-hand combat anyway.”

At his side, stuffing in wraps of thick gauze, Warren nods. Off to the side he glances over the collection of throwing knives.

It goes unnoticed by T’viska as he sorts the bin.

“I’m sure Suuir can find use of you,” the loki takes Warren’s focus again, an elbow budged against his side. “Surveillance missions tend to take at least a couple days at most to complete – but I’ll at least be able to use the sniper I grabbed a while back again.” The warframe smiles.

Warren only slowly nods, stuffing the bagged cache into storage as the warframe heaved the bin over his head.

“There we go,” the warframe grunts, gripping his side again. “Hey, how about we continue going through the album, how does that sound, Warren?”

“Sure, dad,” returns back, hands ushering the scarf back over his face, tucking it over his nose.

“Suuir,” T’viska calls to the ceiling as he starts back to the residential quarter, “give me a status update on the intelligence retrieved from the corpus ship. And the flexibility of that recon mission we’ve already had slated.”

Warren watches as the warframe walks, barely affected by the wound that still aches on his end of the somatic link. His hand curls against his stomach, clutching at the mimicry of the wound.

His hand is slicken with blood still.

Looking over, so are the last couple things he touched.

And tears catch in his throat, forcing himself over to the bin and pulling out a semi-clean portion of the shirt strip he used to pressurize T’viska’s wound.

“You fucking idiot…” he whimpers to himself, wiping tears from his sight before he turns back to join his father.

Above the modification station, stings the trace of blood new and old – left by T’viska’s claws.

…

…

…

Not too long after, T’viska’s already on his next mission.

With a sigh the loki settles down on the peak of an underbrush covered boulder, staring through the sight of the rubico he lugs against his shoulder. “Suuir, I’m at the point. How long until the target’s arrival?” he whispers – though his thoughts linger somewhere else as the cephalon responds with a brief ‘133 hours’. “Suuir, in days and hour.”

‘Five days, 13 hours,’ dances across his vision.

“How’s Warren…?” He doesn’t mention his stomach carving concern, worry from the reassignment he can feel ebbing through the somatic link. There was no fuss, no secondary questions when the loki went off on a longer, yet safer, assignment.

Glancing through the sight of the sniper with sightless eyes, his thoughts teeters around the number of patrolling grineer. At least twelve, at least two bombardiers – and possibly even more once the person of interest finally arrives. But that’ll be for another couple days, a couple days that Warren is left alone on the ship with only a cephalon as a companion.

And he knows from his time spent with the cephalon, they’re asocial.

Concerned about how long it’s taking for him to respond. “Suuir, how’s Warren?” he snaps.

‘He’s fine,’ the cephalon reads over his vision.

“Suuir, don’t be snappy with me,” the warframe sighs, taking stock of the externals of the compounds he’s been slated to watch. “What is he doing right now?”

‘Can’t you sense anything?’

“I can feel his pain and emotions, that’s it,” T’viska grumbles. “I just want to know if he’s okay.”

The cephalon falls silent, flickering out of his transmissions as he continues to stare through the scope. He’ll talk sense into the cephalon later, once night falls. The emotional crushing transmitted courses through into his throat, causing him to swallow in reflex.

Against his thigh, he’s drawn to hiss.

Pain bites against his leg while he’s still lying prone, grasping it with his claws to come back empty. Not even a crushed insect.

“Damnit…” T’viska mumbles. “Warren don’t do this,” he whispers, more to himself than a plead. A secondary cutting pervades against his thigh, carving downwards until it’d be enough to bleed. He hustles the rifle against his shoulder, staring down as his eyespots scrunch.

Five days and thirteen hours, he’ll have to wait…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -+- Kudos, sharing, and comments are encouraged! -+-


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -+- Kudos, sharing, and comments are encouraged! -+-
> 
> Tags will be updated over time.

Warren hisses as the blade bites against his exposed thigh, barely a nip as he pushes down the band of his pants and shuffles himself back to keep his skin bared. It was still the same flawless tone the last he saw after they returned from the relay, untouched by his void scarring that pervades down his throat and over his abdomen. Visibly free of the several bouts of somatic deaths, of being torn to shreds as he lied safe in a cradle. Separate from those he was not, leading others to a death reveled only for a body count. His jaws clench, fingers gripping hard around the spira blade’s slim handle. His thumb presses it down to draw the welting beads of blood, hard enough to hurt, reminding of the ability to feel – but its slow enough to not slit deep into muscles.

Superficial, he relents for brevity. It’ll heal quickly.

And he queues the blade against his thigh again, sitting in a patient pin as he stares down upon it; biting at what’s left of his lip, questioning his understanding of the why. His logic to quiver in thought process to steal the blade from the open station, to sit down and pulling the band down his thigh.

Hair covered features draw themselves taut, nose scrunching as he shoves himself through self-defined torment, of the events of the zariman, the canteen courts, the imposed imprisonment that left him to languish.

He presses it down hard, and aggressive to daunt away the pervasive thought as he slits his skin to a swift hiss and the beading of tears across his sight. It dawns a relief to swarm through his throat, a decompression as he watches red drip ill and languish freely… though an idle finger brushes the red away from the couch cushion he sits. A sense that there should be nothing left as proof, nothing to worry the loki. It’s a dredging thought as the fingertip worth of blood is smeared against a garb of gauze sat at his side.

Just testing his proficiency with mending wounds. That’s it.

Haphazardly the material is set into a bundle, pressing against his skin as he sits patiently, focused turned from carving open to medicating shut. Where his mouth might before snarl sits gritted – exposed healing muscle and bone in place of expressive anguish. A sensation that draws his features in contortion, simmer agitation with his regret.

“First stop the bleeding…” he mumbles, lifting the white material to glance at the wounding. Patting and swiping it along the beading of blood, Warren mediates the amount he lets himself bleed, pressing the spira-made cuts to flinch – why wouldn’t he? Questioning his resolve as he pushes himself forth. Maybe just being intrigued that he bleeds, perhaps, or that the void harshness does not prevent such self-wounding.

It makes Warren wonder, as it slowly begins to draw itself shut despite his cautious kneads to draw them to bleed. What is the limit… how far could it mend?

With a shake of his head he disrupts the continued quandary of testing the limit of the ‘gift’ that made him a subject worthy of the Orokin’s focus so long ago. Something in the past, it can’t hurt him – as he thinks.

Even as he clearly remembers the amount of times his body was pulled out in agony.

The thought simmers in the back of his mind as he watches energy rift across the injuries, a faint tracing that transpires between the folds of his skin. In silence, he only watches. Tuning out the quiet and persistent beeps that come from the transparent pad at his side. Suuir keeps the annoyance active even though it left to languish as the tenno merely allows himself to heal a while longer. His focus entuned to it until it begins to properly seal, no longer irritated by the thoughtless swipes. No more blood left to drip.

With an exhale he pulls the side of his pants back up.

Only half paying attention, Warren taps at the transparent screen as he gathers the bloody materials. It overrides the cephalon’s persistence for just a moment, but the ever stubborn Suuir has the device ring again, displaying a short question he’s unable to turn into audio. ‘Are you alright?’

“I’m fine, Suuir,” Warren sighs, plucking the last of the material from the cushions as he stands. The spira dances within his fingers – motions he had adapted from the cumulative body count that was left in his wake. It draws him to stop, hand scrunching the material in a depth of thought he chases away in the same, similar instance. “I just… have a lot to think about.”

It’s enough to get the cephalon to leave him alone as he deposits the mess into the bin beside the foundry. To which end he cleans the spira as well – no trace of his self-destructive act he perceives; best for the loki to not worry about him. Now or later.

Fingers trace along the remnants of dried blood from the bagged cache left open, where a ribbon of gauze sits exposed from his earlier frantic thoughts. Once more he pulls it out, rewinding it back to be tight before he stuffs it inside and zips the cache shut. Shuttling it back to where his father keeps it, to where it belongs.

Where it belongs...

It causes him to pause for a moment, a rouge and pervasive thought. Persuasive, irate; where does he belong?

Warren settles himself back to the quiet residential room, taking the transparent device in hand and gesturing out into the open air. Cephalon Suuir sits quiet as the teenager flips through the storage banks held deep within the ship’s electronics. He slouches against the cushions, pulling a blanket around himself as his coat lies discarded out of his reach. Too exhausted to reach over for it, he justifies to himself, the blanket is closer.

Drifting within the warmth, drawing himself close, Warren flips through the archives left by T’viska. The videos, the candid photographs of pleasant scenery of reclaimed Orokin structures. Inner rot of flesh towers hanging exposed, calcified in the whipping winds of a vengeful landscape. Rebounding through the images, he finds himself drawn to the interior structures, the systems that would’ve been his only comfort for so very long.

It’s a couple more hours until he sees the cephalon chime across the screen.

Words dance across the screen, relayed words he can barely understand in the first instance before the cephalon’s visage fizzles, forgetful. As Warren is still in the process of learning the common language, Suuir tries to simply them into a series of bullet points. That is, until a brief audio overlap cuts short the cephalon’s irritation.

It’s T’viska. “Hey, Warren,” the loki sighs, “how’re you doing up there?” To Warren’s relief, he doesn’t start with the self-harm. An answer to a question he doesn’t want to ask.

“Bored,” he mumbles, letting the audio call through the device between his hands. “How long will you be there?”

A mechanically traced sigh, the warframe shuffling beneath foliage. “At least five more days.”

Silence. Idle hands knead the fabric of the blanket.

“Not feeling like letting Suuir tutor you?” the warframe slightly chuckles, a tone to break the tension. “He doesn’t like being told no so abruptly. He’s strict, but responsible.”

Warren only nods. “I don’t feel like it right now.”

“That’s fine!” the warframe shuffles beneath his position, the rattle of his idle rubico nestled against stone. “Suppose you could do some chores around the orbiter? It’s… a mighty mess I admit. Never got time to make it neat.” T’viska sighs. “Won’t take up all the downtime you have up there, but it won’t just be filled with Suuir’s teaching.”

“Yeah… I can do that,” the teenager mumbles beneath the blanket.

On the other end of the line the warframe sighs, audio rustling as he finds himself comfortable on the bark of his post. “There should be some cleaning supplies in one of the rear compartments. Might be buried beneath a crate. I’m sure you’ll find it up there somewhere,” he briefly chuckles. “If not, once I get back we can clean it up together. At least not as much of a fucking mess.”

Warren chuckles. “Yeah… I’ll see if I can find it. Stay safe dad.”

T’viska in return sighs. “I’ll try. Maybe next time we go to a relay can find a better transponder. Suuir has to patch me through his logic centers. And he’s not going to be happy with me,” and then chuckles. “Take care up there. I’ll be back in five days.”

And after a brief systemic beep, the cephalon returns to the device proper.

Their tetrahedron state jitters erratically, ablaze in agitation that bleeds through as frantic zipping lines of deep orange. Where usual calm text would tattle, they run in a frantic fury, garbled text that the teenager merely watches with only a halved expression, unimpressed by the cephalon’s directionless aggression. The outburst is short lift, in time the cephalon’s hosted words begin to settle back down, beaming with dusty yellows that flake from his pointed slate expression.

In the short moment of silence Warren only smiles, settling himself down amongst the blankets as he watches the cephalon strain to apologize, that the correspondence shorted his logic functions and the like. They’re verbose explanations the tenno can only partly understand, casting a quizzical expression down to the device. Shards of the cephalon fizzle as they work to reword themselves, streamlining their vast dictation for the teenager.

Until all Suuir can come up with is, ‘I’m sorry.’

Warren, having nestled himself amongst the warmth of the fabric, tucks the device between his half-covered hands and his lip. “That’s okay,” he sighs as his small smile begins to fade, “I’m sure dad didn’t mean it… he’s probably just worried.”

In a moment of pause, and no answer from the cephalon, he sets the device back behind him. ‘He was,’ frantically blips across the screen just as it leaves his sight, abandoned above as Warren rolls himself off against his side. Tucking the oversized blanket around his legs, throwing the corner over until he can barely see out into the room beyond a fold. Across the room he watches the sway of an ocean front – a clip of many, audio coaxing an abandoned seaside wharf. He’ll go searching for the detergent later; too exhausted to remain awake for much longer. Even as a kavat sticks their nose into the hooding, but all it takes is a brief gust of air to shoo Crenshaw away, blown up their nose. The creature quickly draws himself back to stare, investigating once more to the same nuisance reaction. Warren however snorts, amused, before he curls the fabric to entomb completely.

 

In the time between, the teenager lingers from one activity to another. From cleaning out refuse long abandoned and organizing; picking through the crates to create space; Warren spends every moment doing something. Focus from one room to another, he keeps himself busy, brushing away the thoughts each time he passed the spira blades left out across the loki’s arsenal. Items find themselves moved from cramped crates to more open storage.

Between the heavy shuffles, the lingering ache in his arms and legs, Suuir engages Warren with light tutoring lessons; primarily to teach him the nuances from the written language he used to know. It’s a simplified Orokin language Suuir is able to identify, but any queries given by the cephalon go unanswered, deflected at every turn by Warren. Or even cutting the lesson inevitably short.

Cephalon Suuir doesn’t push it.

On his return, T’viska settles them back into the residential quarter. He speaks in compliments as he drops the rubico down at the arsenal table, about Warren’s diligence when it came to making the ship more of a home, for more than an old warframe. Where it once sat cluttered items sit neatly organized, easier to parse through as the warframe notes as they settle back on the couch. He makes note of Warren’s reflexes to huddle beneath a blanket instead of his coat, a question sat simmering as the teenager reclines with his feet kicked up and comfortable.

And he’s still smiling. T’viska just wants to see him smile.

Another mission lined up sits in the back of the loki’s thoughts as he scrounges through the orbiter’s database. He has no idea what he’s looking for, slouching back against the cushions, dragging down a blanket of his own as his eyespots scrunch in thought.

“Dad, what’re you looking for?” Warren asks.

“No idea,” the loki huffs. He supposes there should be some activities left in the system’s residual files, something that could keep Warren entertained through the time he spends on the field. Most of the ship was clean now, he relents, and there’s only so much of the cephalon’s persistence left to teach. He shuffles himself to properly sit up. “Something you can do while I’m away. You’ve done such a good job cleaning that you might as well have some other activities, right? There’s only so much cleaning to be done.” The warframe stems a smile.

Warren shrugs, burying himself among the blanket. “I suppose… what activities do you have in mind?”

T’viska sighs as he turns back to the display across the room, weaving through the archival structure crafted by the cephalon. “Given, I don’t have much control over what Suuir allows or not,” and to this, he turns to the ceiling, to Cephalon Suuir who only answers with a blip of ellipses. “We’ll work through the album first, how does that sound, Warren?”

Despite the teenager’s flat expression settled amongst the blanket, his sigh isn’t of contempt. “Sure.”

Elated, T’viska navigates back to the volume of remote photographs and video logs. For the few hours they still have, that the warframe explains as downtime, they spend them mulling over the landscapes, the minute details that the Loki barely remembers or the tenno takes interest in. It’s engagement that settles the warframe’s shuttered worry, at least for the time until he has to leave again.

He never brings up the pain dragged across his thigh.

 

Laid amongst the foliage brush of Venus, T’viska settles himself amongst the snow with his sniper rifle. A blanket lies drifted over his back as he takes position in the crunching snow, giving him just enough space to breath comfortably through his diluting dark vents. Another week of observation, his fangs wrought to clench as he curses into Suuir’s report filter his distain, updating their contractor with any relevant information. Logically intensive work, watching vessels decked with unlabeled cargo arrive and depart.

Long hours, but higher pay. A statement of receiving a large sum in return for the information.

T’viska shuffles the rifle against his shoulder, grunting as he watches the cephalon ease his mental workload through his vision. “Suuir, what should I do,” the warframe sighs, watching as a corpus vehicle depart over the hills.

‘About what?’

“Warren,” he hushes himself against the snow, sight flickering past the distant blooms. “Just being able to feel his emotions makes me anxious, I can’t distinguish between them sometimes.”

‘Understandable; any idea what to do with the payment?’

“Save it up. Take Warren to earth or something, he enjoys the views I snapped from there. A couple of them should still be untouched by the grineer regime, right? I’ll take him someplace safe, let him have some fresh air.”

‘T, how many jobs did you queue for again?’ Saved on the details of priority, the ones willing to work if they’ve not already been taken.

The warframe sighs, “at least nine last I can remember… Have any of them had other offers yet; can you check that for me?”

Cephalon Suuir reads blank across his vision, letting T’viska’s question hang as he stares back through the scope. It’s mindless preoccupation he finds himself, counting the bolts in the structures as he waits, watching the time elapse count closer ever so slowly to seven-days of observation. Minute by minute the loki waits for a response, straining to recall what missions he slated himself to work.

Suuir verifies his frantic assignments; two more observations, three minor assassinations, and four ‘simple’ captures.

Of course, someone else had already taken one of the captures in the network, another having staked a claim in an observation as he lies prone in the snow for another six days. Little by little, as he waits in the snow, the assignments he took interest in are completed, barely filled with more of the simple jobs or ones that carry a hefty bounty for completion.

Through the scope he can pick out the VIP his contractor had interest in. The loki has no care for economic politics.

“Target in the compound,” he relays to Suuir, eyeing the clock in the corner of his sights. “They’re late, but they’re present.” Assignment completed, capturing the suspect’s movements for payment.

T’viska sighs.

One down, a couple more to go…

 

On the way to his next assignment, he drops by a relay for a transponder. It’s a small device he holds in the palm of his hand when he returns, folding it down into the teenager’s own as the orbiter turns to their next destination. His next assignment. It won’t hamper Suuir’s logic functions, he attested, a confirmation that’s made as he meanders through the maintenance shafts. The connection affirmed and blipping in the warframe’s sight as he cloaks into the hostile environment, keeping his conversation light, muting his end of the line as he ducks into capturing a corpus dissident relating to his earlier observation.

It’s the same VIP whose curses become mute against the loki’s palm, metal fists punching back against the warframe’s body has he strangles them into silence. It’s within the depths of the side room does the muffled struggle goes silent, catching the body as he lies back against the wall with a sigh.

“Dad, are you alright?” Warren’s voice mumbles against sheets.

“Yeah, I’m okay,” the loki sighs, heaving the unconscious body down to the floor. He taps the door to initiate its lock, “I’ll be back soon… just got into a bit of a scuffle, that’s all.”

On the other end of the line, the tenno sighs. “Alright. Just be careful on the way back.”

T’viska nods, making his side become muted once more.

He hates this part.

And to it, he plucks the ‘interrogation device’ from the pouch at his side, holding it face down over the unconscious body before him. In an instance, their body blooms and flickers into shards of light, their form becoming mere fragments of existence as they dissolve into his palm, captured and right for interrogation.

Looking down into his palm, the warframe sighs.

Only a few more he’s willing to do.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -+- Kudos, sharing, and comments are encouraged! -+-
> 
> Tags will be updated over time.

Golden claws grip against ill seeping black as his body lands just inside the doorway.

Barely staggering, T’viska forces himself upright on unsteady legs, forcing himself further into the secluding darkness of the room in hope for reprieve. Somewhere far from the muffled gunfire ratchetting through the hallway behind him, grineer screams becoming nearly mute as he casts himself beneath his cloak with a lurch. A fist hammers against the console beneath his contorted form, horns scratching against the wall as he looks back. In hopes it becomes locked once more; he can’t chance it.

Along the wall he falters, staggering into the darkness of the small storage room as blood continues to ooze between his fingers, swallowing down the fluid imbuing itself inside his throat. The warframe crumbles down onto a container with a seizing hiss, lying back with a rumbling grunt as the rod piercing through his bicep clicks against the wall.

He’s fucked up big time.

Beneath the gaze of his splitting eyespots, the loki stares at his trembling hand, casting his head back against the wall with a shuffled breath. “Warren,” he grumbles, “can you hear me?” as he opens the transponder connection, worry aching through his mind.

But all he can hear is gasping whimpers; pained by the sympathetic somatic link. The defaulting transfer of pain to one from another.

The loki’s maw twists as he tries to keep his body still, heaving breaths as his hands cup against the exit wounds in his stomach and then the spear piercing through his arm. Thoughts course through agony, stammering to breathe as he eases himself steady for his son’s own sake. “Warren,” he coughs, spitting out blood that dribbles down his jaw as his teeth gnash.

“I’m here- dad,” the teenager recoils, voice muffled against the blanket he holds against his very own heaves, choking through every breath. “It hurts,” the tenno whimpers, lied coiled on the orbiter still.

“I know,” T’viska gasps, “I’m sorry.” His exhale is shaking, dulled and in pain as his energy reserves begin to drift empty. Injuries across his body slowly begin to seal themselves, leaving mere blotches of black blood in their wake around his legs and chest – stomach still scattered with shrapnel. Paws scratch against one another as he heaves himself back, the back of his crown scratching against the walls as he exhales. “Give me a minute,” he wanes, forcing himself to inhale through once punctured lungs, still gagging on his own blood. “There’s a rod in my left arm,” T’viska swallows, his other palm pressing around the wound. “I need to pull it out.”

He can feel the teenager wincing, swallowing down his own aching as he lies recoiled, clutching white knuckled against the soft fabric. Transfer of agony scrapes through their merged senses, of the metal shards embedded back to front, the mangled bullet holes that decorate the warframe into a mingling of his black and grineer red. It makes T’viska snarl – his fuck ups shouldn’t be put on his kid.

Warren doesn’t deserve this, he already went through enough.

“Warren,” the loki swallows, claws digging against the wound. “I want you to put your hand where mine is – against the wound. You know where it is.”

He can hear the tenno shuffle on the other end of the transponder – Cephalon’s Suuir’s words slicing across his vision. That the sabotage is still under effect, he needs to keep moving.

“Fuck off, Suuir,” T’viska snaps, churning himself back to his kid. “Warren, you can hear me, right?”

A muffled confirmation, a groan of pain made with a tussle of material.

“Okay. Listen. Put your hand over the wound, and I want you to press down as hard as possible, okay?” He can’t hear the tenno nod – but he can feel the meager pressure against his skin beneath the gore-soaked rod.

“Keep your hand there,” the loki gasps, blood-soaked claws digging around the pervasive metal soaked with gore, “and I’ll get it out. Just hold on.” He grunts, hand trembling. “Warren, stay with me, tell me when you’re ready.”

“Just do it,” words crack between seizing lungs. Piercing T’viska’s heart.

He shouldn’t feel his pain.

But the loki’s resolve sits strong, swallowing down the gore clogging up his throat before his teeth snap around the grineer metal. No pulling, no grinding nor chewing, the metal begins to dent with each vicious bite, carved into by biomechanical PSI into a jagged end that barely protrudes from once clear and distinct warm brown. Now a mere mess of oozing black and torn dark purple.

“Press down, Warren,” T’viska gasps, teeth gnashing as his bloodied mouth snarls – slowly lifting his arm up and over head. His claws latch around his cresting horn as the other half of the rod still wobbles inside his arm; half-way free. “I almost got it,” the loki hisses, digits coiling around the slipping metal. “I need to pull it out,” he exhales, and waits; a breath of time he gives to stave Warren off from the blinding pain that’s to behold them.

And he yanks.

On the other end of the transponder, T’viska can hear Warren scream. Cursing and coiling, the teenager’s words fumble as he holds his supposedly torn arm, cast against the cushion as the warframe tosses the metal rod away. Words stammering in ricochets inside his skull, aching more than the agony bleeding down his bicep, oozing vicious black as he holds it close, straining to force the wound to seal. It draws him to choke, swallowing down the illing copperous taste – half from the blazing pain, half from muffled screams into the transponder.

“Warren,” the loki chokes, swallowing hard, “talk to me.”

“It hurts,” mumbles between the rustling, anchored in agony as the teenager draws himself around in constraints, in bitter agony. “I can take it,” Warren whimpers, aching around the nervous blaze within his arm, against the mimicry of torn muscles and organs in his abdomen. Pains he’s drawn himself to be deviant against, intimately aware of being blown apart as he lies comfortable and still.

“Warren,” T’viska snarls, “No, you will keep talking. It’s my pain to deal with, not yours. If it is hurting you, then it’s my top-fucking-priority; not the fuckin assignment.” Eyespots flicker as he watches the doorway, the echoes of garbled grineer lies beyond it. Still in a hot zone, his teeth grit.

“But,” the teenager fumbles, still lying coiled amongst the fabric.

“Just keep talking,” the loki gasps, hand pressing against the slowly healing wound in his gut, where his energy reserves dwindle empty. “We can get through this, just like before, kid.” He draws himself hushed, swallowing down aches of gore before his cloak dissipates – only to be cast once more in the harrowing darkness of the storage room. “And I promise, after this,” he spits blood, rolling his agonizing shoulders, attention perked to a conversation outside the room – a lockdown drawn to a close. “We’re going to earth.”

Warren’s end of the transponder resigns muffled, as all the tenno can manage is a hushed and weak ‘okay’ in confirmation, still languishing in the echoes of agony. Merely ignorant of the loki’s situation as he pleas for rest.

“I’m sorry, Warren,” T’viska whispers, barely forcing himself to exhale, pain biting through his concentration. “I’ll be home soon. I promise.” And as the door’s light shunts back to green, he mutes his end of the connection, ruffling himself into a limbering stance as his stomach aches in hunger.

An overwhelming ache that combats against the heartache; hunger that’s aches to be sated by blood and gore.

He can feel Warren heave through his senses, choking back.

“I’m sorry, kid,” he whispers once more, flexing his claws as the doors fall open, met by a cavalcade of patrolling grineer. And he slips around them in jagged lunges, held limber through the aching pain as he hunts for a secluded soldier as his stomach aches.

And how does it ache.

Hunger chokes back his logical persuasion, delving in revert to feral intent. It’s a thirst for blood that drives his motions as barbed tendrils bury within a heaving throat, carving empty breaths from a torn trachea. Seeping blood traces around his ground eyespots as he feeds, spattered as bloodied claws scratch at their grey cloth, holding against lashing arms as he engorges himself on the tube-born soldier suffocating beneath him. Hands once frantic barely dig against his skin, drifting into the lingers of unconsciousness.

T’viska’s wound echo as they begin to heal – leaving only the stains in spilt blood.

 

 

Vents furl in agitation as the hatch hisses open.

T’viska’s exhales are deep and exhausted as the loki pulls himself into the barely cool comfort of the orbiter, scratching and leaving the traces of blood in his wake as he scrambles. It drips down his hocks, drools over the metal beams that coax him into the imbuing silence. An expanse that leaves him lost in thought as he tries to find himself settled against the foundry, where his golden claws snag. He rocks against the rolling yaw of the ship’s engines, a motion brought by the mute’s cephalon’s directive to carry them far from the other faltering vessel.

Finding purchase against the surface, he yanks the reserves of cloth free from overhead. Motions unrestrained as he strains to rub the gore from his snarling features. It presses harsh against his throat, quick to collect the sickly blood within the material only to toss it into the bin. In his quick motions that he ignores the cephalon’s brief requests, words that course across his vision, clouding his concentration. It feeds into his agitation, snarling as he throws another bloodied cloth into the disposal device, a tube feeding into a diffusion system.

‘T, have you delivered the objective,’ the cephalon compounds against his thoughts.

‘T, the ship is burning. What did you do,’ hammers.

‘T’viska, they want answers now-‘

“Shut up, Suuir!” the loki curses, casting his sight to the ceiling. “The jobs done, alright?! Give me some fucking space!” He stumbles, lumbering as he claws through the material Warren so carefully set up, an organization made messy by his grasping claws. Anxiously wiping away the gore and blood, and the traces of the indulgent bloodletting that sticks inside his mouth, in his throat that’s pleasantly satisfied with the slaughter left his in his wake. A killing hunger satisfied through cannibalistic desires, a smear looming upon his record as he claws through the supply of cloth, anxious thoughts lying across his scrunching features.

His breathing huffs as he holds the material against his face, pressing the folded fabric against his splitting eyespots, beneath his horns as he crumples to the ground.

What in the fuck is he going to do now?

The warframe’s mouth snarls, a straining that claws through his thoughts. Clawing through his heart as he heaves through his side-splitting vents.

“Dad…” questions meekly behind him, lashing back. “What did you do.”

“I fucking killed them, Warren,” T’viska snaps; his back remaining turned. “I did my fucking job and now I’m up shits creek because of you!” To it, he pulls himself from the material. Between his palms the material still carries his features form to form, tossing it away with a snarl. And his own words claw within his chest, digging and eviscerating – an emotional echo.

At the end of the ramp leading down to the center hall, Warren remains huddled beneath a draping blanket. It hoods over his tussled hair, over the half-snarling features that bite back against bitter fear as he edges behind the rounding corner. Keeping space between him and the warframe.

“I… I just wanted to make sure y-you were okay,” he swallows. Even though his voice is muffled, quivering behind the grasp of the blanket, T’viska can feel the tears. “I’m sorry,” Warren whimpers.

And he vanishes around the corner.

“Warren!” the loki calls back, his grasp reaching out and empty… the limb dropping back against his side.

His shoulders droop, features drawn tight; fumbling, his crown falls back.

With an exhale, his claws run beneath his horns, clutching against his face.

Warren was crying…

T’viska snarls. Clean up first… then apologizing, he forces himself into concentration. To think as he holds himself stable as the cephalon leaves his vision clear.

Given room to think.

The loki sighs.

 

 

With a flick of the wrist, the cephalon takes his brief request as he walks down the ramp, following the aching dug into his chest. The somatic transfer of emotions fumes through his thoughts, coiling amongst his chest as he palms the door to slide itself open under his behest. And amongst the room, only silence pervades before his motions, divulging in the motionlessness before him – where only a brief rustle of sheets sounds as he paws into the residential room.

A merging of senses twists within his chest as he rounds the central display, looking over the form barely curling beneath the bench.

With a glance between the form buried beneath sheets, where gentle sobs echo across the warframe’s cheeks, and to the opposite glass-frame, T’viska signals Suuir to cover the surface. “Suuir, soundscape, beach 591,” the loki whispers. Warren’s huddled form flinches at his feet.

Concern cuts across the loki’s features as he eases himself onto the bench. An expression torn by the mirroring emotions, the stinging in eyes he lacks.

Slowly, his claws barely grace over the blanket. “Warren,” he strains, hand lingering over where his son wraps himself, held against a shoulder shape. He gives him barely a shake, reclining back to the bench to give the teenager space to find himself. “I’m sorry, for earlier,” he sighs, “I’ve asked Suuir to take us to earth, after that last mission…” he pauses, swallowing down a transferring ache. “I lost control, on the last mission. I never intend on you getting hurt like that, please know that,” he sighs.

Claws hold against his face as the recording calls from the ceiling, surrounding them in the delves of anxiety. One to another, T’viska heaves his breath, tilting back against the center platform. “I don’t want you to get hurt anymore…” mumbles. “And I… lashed out. I’m sorry.”

Warren remains still beneath the bench, coiled amongst the fabric as his palms knead against his face, sniffling and sobbing silently within the comforting darkness. Their somatic connection rings with nervous anxiety, juxtaposing the twisting coil that claws through the loki’s chest and throat. Sensation made of a merge of nerves, daunted over as the warframe sits in silence.

The warframe’s claws knead into his knuckles, poised forward and resting against his knees.

Should I tell him…? aches.

That he can feel the lashing of blade on skin, that like his pain is transferred so does he feel the tenno’s injuries and anxious suffocation as he hiccups into the blanket below him. Where he wallows in desperation and despair, overcome with an anxiety attack.

T’viska swallows. He lifts himself from the bench, rounding the surface that separates the scenery from the anguished teenager huddling himself beneath the seating.

Settling into a crouch, golden claws grasp against the fabric folds, tempting to ease them from the sobbing tenno. Each movement is made gentle, barely pulling them free from the grip of balling knuckles, peeling away the fabric folds to expose the furl of auburn hair. Between the gasps made in the ensnared fabric, the warframe’s hands slips down to rub against tense shoulders, against the quivering back. “I’m sorry, Warren,” the warframe sighs, held against a shuddering nape. “But until we can figure this out, I’m not going to take any more jobs. I don’t want to risk you getting hurt anymore.”

A sniffle is all that responds from the tenno as he lies still beneath the blanket, a noise that slowly eases itself quiet as the loki’s palm continues to rub in solemn empathy.

And amongst the pervasive soundscape that plays on the other end of the room, the ship slips into a stable cruise. Beneath them they can feel the mild vibrations through the floor, motions that hum against the tenno’s aching thoughts, against the vice ensnared within his chest as he pulls himself out of the blanket.

Looking down upon the teenager, the loki’s features remain constrained. His maw twisted into a parted frown, eyespots made into slits beneath taut muscles. “Warren,” his features twist, “I may not be the best father… but I’m going to try my best for you.”

Warren’s features fume in the low light, glowing eyes squinting against the stain of tears.

And T’viska catches the tenno against his chest; his breath holds itself paused, briefly stunned as one hand lands behind him to keep them upright. His other wraps around the body holding him in a vice, yielding close the soft hiccups that press into his chest. “Thank you,” whimpers against his skin, sobbed and wrecked.

Emotions rattle through the warframe’s cortex as he holds back. A blaring that mends between the relief of being forgiven and the aching transferred from Warren’s end of the somatic link. His golden claws chill against the teenager’s back, soothing in their gentle reassurance.

For a moment, the loki stares over to the display on the far end of the room, where a beach scene rolls through an aged recording. “I told Suuir to take us to earth. We should be there within an hour or so,” the warframe sighs, his hold merely echoing in comfort to the vice grip around his body. “You need fresh air, Warren. It’s not healthy to be crammed up here for so long; especially after what you’ve gone through.”

Against his chest, the tenno’s forehead presses, eyes barely slipping open to the welt of tears.

And the silence of a nod.

 

 

As the engines whirl muted, the liset’s landing gear sinks against the windswept soil at the edge of the cliff-side embankment. It shuffles on its legs as he tries to find stability, leveling itself out as waves thunder in the distance, as the dust drifts through the cool autumn air and against the sleek housing of the vessel. Once tussled foliage finds themselves settled once more, tossed out of place by the vicious turbines humming above as roots lie exposed, soil tossed in the minor commotion.

Far from the Ostron outpost, the ship slowly begins to ease itself into silence. The short ramp lumbers from its housing as the joints fold, leading backwards between the usually thunderous twinned tail. Above them, the engine fins fold over the outtake nozzle as the dust settles around them, leaving only the breath of the sea’s salt to gust beneath the solemn metal.

Footsteps boots and paws make the ramp components sigh as their weight falls upon the joints. Once cautious steps lead into a thunderous run that makes the surface shake, transposing into the soil with the fainting of a laugh, the trace of a smile that turns toothy and wide.

As Warren skips over the catch of rocks amongst the overgrowth, T’viska watches as his own feet find themselves in the settled soil beneath the ramp. His light posture digs into the dirt with every step, wandering into the open air as his chest vents furl and exhale. Behind him he can hear the teenager’s motions rustle in the foliage, easing himself from the liset’s shadow to overlook the ocean, the crash of waves against the jutting sentient remains and the distant roars. His sight falters down against the coastline, following the husking sand in the morning light to trace over the distant settlement further up the beach, where it carries up shear cliffs to overlook the vast untouched ocean.

T’viska heaves a sigh as he lowers himself down to the stone, kicking out his panted leggings as he furls the side-ways skirt out beneath him. Paw claws dig against the soil as he shuffles against the matter beneath him, sitting among the snag of twigs and poking stones. A simple discomfort as he settles down into the ocean breeze.

With a sigh, he eases himself back into the grasses and stemming flowers.

Traces of leaves tickle against his pelt, brushing against him as the wind furl his skirt up against a raised thigh as he stretches out. The break is just as much for himself as it is for Warren. A thought that sighs through his scarred body, that he stretches out in his rebandaged arms that still ache with bare flesh.

Back against the ground, he stares into the drifting clouds.

Claws hold around his forearms…

They should’ve healed by now.

At the other end of the liset’s landing zone, the teenager had begun to settle himself amongst the layering foliage. It rustles against his legs as he reaches against the juts of stone, the deep banding strata of the cliff that forces him to tug off his glove to feel the grit beneath his fingers. Motions not driven by intrigue as he holds his palm against the chilling morning stones, stepping back to look over the sheer vastness between himself and the distant ocean.

And again, he runs. Running through the nip of snagging brush and the stumbles of stone. Over the rubble left by long dead sentients. In the distance he can see the calcified remains overlook the ocean, shading against the unbridled growth amongst the hush of sea water.

Against the turbulent winds, Warren’s breathing pants, crawling himself down as he sits at the edge between the field and the beach.

Looking out into the sea, past where the sand kneads around the sentient remains that shadow him from the rising sun.

Empty and vast.

Out amongst the distance he can see the merely tattered remains of Orokin structures.

Broken, calcified on the horizon where they sit solemn and dead.

Tears slip through the teenager’s sight as his hand rustles through the grass, drawing himself close against his chest as his face settles against his knees. The fabric of the scarf hides the snarling teeth as his features are drawn taut, staring into the endless distance.

The furling wind overtakes conscious thought; the rolling of storming waves that hush themselves against the sand.

T’viska’s claws curl against his chest, scratching at a carving itch.

Raising himself to his feet, the warframe collapses at Warren’s side. A brief distance between them as he waits in the silence.

After a moment, carving through the smell of wasted crustaceans and the lingering scent of salt. “Where do I belong, T’viska…?”

He continues to stare into the distance, his eyespots held closed as he watches the clouds roll into soft orange. “I don’t know, Warren,” he sighs. “I don’t even know where I should be at this point.”

A staling silence.

It carves through their somatic link, from tenno to warframe.

Warren sighs, hands fidgeting as one leg lies out, holding himself still close with one. “It’s… not right that you’re the only one out there.” Briefs a chuckle, stunting a conversation. “I’m only good at tying you down, you know? You don’t want me to get hurt, but anytime you get hurt I can feel it.” He strains to swallow, head pressing against his knee, eyes squeezing shut. “I’m just a burden…”

“Listen, Warren,” the loki forces himself to sit properly. “You’re not, okay? There’s only so much you can do, and its not your fault. I can take less high-intensity jobs, take ones with lower risk of injury.”

“But you can’t guarantee it,” Warren points back, his eyes glowing above the scarf.

“No, I can’t,” the warframe sighs, “but I… I don’t know what to do. Things have just been scrambled recently, with Suuir and I. He’s not used to such duties and –“ he barely strains to continue, hand clawing against his crown.

Warren frowns beneath the scarf. “Dad… teach me how to fight.”

The loki’s features twist, “what, why?”

Righting himself onto his feet, Warren brushes the foliage from his pants and coat. “You shouldn’t be the only one out there. I want to be able to hold my own out there.”

“Warren, it’s dangerous.”

Features scrunching, Warren huffs. “Then you just want me stuck up on the ship all the time while you’re away? Taking care of everything and just lie down every time you take a bullet?”

“No, that’s not what I meant,” the loki strains. “I just don’t want you to get hurt,” he can feel the ache of tears. “That’s all. Surely all that experience before mounts to something, yeah, but you aren’t a warframe. There are –“ he bites back, “there are things out there that want you dead more than me.”

The ache of grineer propaganda stings in his mind.

Ungloved hands ball against the edges of the tenno’s coat, tugging at the material, teeth gritting beneath the scarf.

T’viska ushers himself to his feet, lending his hands before him. “I’m not going to just leave you, Warren,” he swallows against the carving ache in his chest, the transfer. “We’ll figure things out, okay kid?” he whispers as arms strain around him, knuckles pressing against his spine.

“Okay,” whispers between them. “I just…”

Gold claws wrap around the teenager’s back, yielding into a hug. “I know. I know,” exhales into the tune of gentle hushes, pressing against the tenno’s scalp. “You’re scared… it’s okay,” his hand pats. And they linger there, sobs bitten back pressed against dark scarred skin. In slow, the warframe shuffles them to sway – to cradle his son in totality. “We’ll figure everything out, Warren. I promise.”


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -+- Kudos, sharing, and comments are encouraged! -+-
> 
> Tags will be updated over time.

Coated arms cling firmly around a wicker basket, held tight and affirming as the teenager glances over the rummaging of the Ostron outpost. Somatic eyes gaze past the bustling noise of the late afternoon shuffle as the market buzzes with off-world visitors. Trading item to item, barely a currency exchange beside the local trade of valuable trickets brought to the small settlement at the edge of the sea. The basket sits snuggly between his legs as he settles down onto a rock beside the mercenary loki. Within it fruits sit plump and ripe, a small variety that T’viska had allowed to take place – a mention of money being tight.

Watching over the hum of idle conversations and the tinkering of pots, tools, and cutlery, the teenager finds himself relaxed, eased as he watches people live amongst the land. Without so much of a mention of external interference save for the ruined and reclaimed Orokin structures they crafted into their own settlement, aside of the foreign traders that find themselves in conversation with the simple terrestrial life.

Picking out a maprico fruit, Warren etches his fingers around the harsh shell, the brief sharp edges of the bountiful fruit that makes the regional snack. In two hands, held above the open basket, the teenager pries against the shell. Within the gloves it holds still even as he picks his thumb into a damaged crease, where it had struck a rock or another fruit at some other time.

With a grumble, he reaffirms his grip on the decently sized fruit, an offering by the trader as T’viska exchanged medical equipment from off world locals. The teenager wrenches his shoulders into the attempting breakage of the outer shell, its structure kept stable as he gives it a minor struggle. When he reaffirms again, brows scrunching, void energy ebbs through his palm, and against the fruit until the shell snaps and squeezes the material to off shoot.

The teenager grins as the fruit’s shell snaps into two, fragments dropping down into the basket settled beneath his elbows. With a look over the fruit, and a side wards glance, he offers one half of the maprico to T’viska. Of course, the smaller fragment.

An usher aside, the loki accepts the fruit as the teenager picks at the soft red flesh within it. Curiosity staking over a brief hunger that pings as he inhales the sweet aroma given by the tearing of the inner membrane, or of the broken catalysts of sweet pulp as he peels a sac from the shell he holds in his palms.

Warren’s scarf removed, and bone teeth laid bare, he sucks up the piece of fruit. And sighs. Succulent and sweet, the teenager glints with achievement as he mouths the fruit’s flesh against his chin. Haphazard in method, he eats it straight from the shell, open for straight shearing tears with his exposed canine and molars of his left side.

At his side, T’viska idly pries the flesh with the lashing black tendrils anchored within his throat. He hides them with the fruit pressed against his maw, eye slits split and reflective in the dims of the shade. The loki watches over the crowd further beyond the slopped incline to which they sit, observing the carving of sea-ward catches that waif through the air. Smoke-seared flesh draws his attention as he merely idly consumes the maprico held before him.

“How’re you feeling, kid?” the loki whispers down to the teenager amidst busting open another fruit.

“A little better,” Warren fumbles, sight adverted to the fruit held between his palms. “I like it here… it reminds me of home…” his words linger, sewn shut by snarling lips as his concentration pins into the fruit – snapping it open again with the echoes of void energy. This time, Warren doesn’t bother to share.

“Have any fond memories?” T’viska addresses his posture to lean back against the soil slope, beneath the cresting shadow of the structure built along the embankment.

“Barely,” the teenager mumbles with a mouth full of oozing red fruit pulp. “It’s… kinda hard to remember, I guess?”

The loki nods, head tilting back to stare into the distant sky, to the beaconing of survey light made in the contested skies above earth. His sensory brow quivers taut, watching as lights beam across the sky in silence and towards the fragments of the room that glints white in the sunlight sky. He huffs as he listens to the sounds around him, quant in the moment of being surrounded by pleasantries. Where people talk nonthreatening, where metal hits metal not for agitation but to whip away the dripping of soups somewhere beyond his sightline.

Warren, at his side reclines with a piece of maprico still held in hand. Against his chest he holds the fruit as his attention drifts, a smear of a smile brimming his features beyond the hasty covering of the scarf.

Happy.

T’viska sighs, nestling himself back on his bandaged forearms. Warren is happy.

 

 

The loki’s paws silently pad against the ground as they make their way back, caught in conversation as he trails after Warren’s boot sole steps. Where the teenager glows beneath the dimming light of the settling sun sunk beneath the horizon and cliff-side breeze. Tucked within the foliage undergrowth, amongst the sand-blasted scenery the desire path leads them along the distance brimmed by turbulent waves towards where the liset quietly sits. It's well-worn and grey shell rebounds the aches of hours passed, sun baked and dulled.

T’viska calls to Suuir to drop the ramp for him and his son, giving Warren the brevity of the soothing waves cresting a few meters beyond them. The teenager lingers at the edge of the dimming shadow bared by a rocky cliffside, sight turned to the ruins of Orokin architecture. Within the basket he holds hustles against his chest, hands firming against the weaves of solid foliage fibers.

With a lingering exhale, a flickering of his sight, he turns back to T’viska. “This is the same place as the video you played… wasn’t it?”

Glancing past Warren, the warframe looks over to where the sentient bones sit embedded in the beach sand. Where they’ve once sat spired years ago, they droop in their entrenchment, a physical resentment of the passage of time. A click of golden claws grip against the liset’s support struts. T’viska knows which, “which one,” he fakes.

“The first one,” Warren trails, staring out into the depths of the horizon. His face still lies obscured by the scarf holstering his bare jaw from the ocean chill.

Without turning his head, T’viska sighs. “A lot has changed since… then,” his voice trails, a hesitation of the knowledge of his reality still remarks as foreign to the teenager.

So many years have passed.

“But yes,” he continues, ushering himself beneath the liset’s shadow, “this is the very beach as all those years ago.”

Warren’s stature remains stale, a statue stood upon sand mingled dirt and the rustled plants with their roots lingering over the exposed soil. The nook in which they stand, as the teenager looks around, appears to be coursed by the liset’s visitation, the tail end angled towards where foliage waivers young, coursed by the liset’s visitations. “T’viska… dad,” he pulls himself towards the ebbing warmth as the engines whine overhead. “Since… then,” a strain, trailing, “you’ve waited for me?”

T’viska nods. Their exchange silent.

They board the liset; and across the transference connection lies a beading of tears.

The loki kicks the liset into ignition, to follow the autopilot guidance back into the swarming skies abuzz with grineer and corpus cruisers. As they ease into altitude, and the vessel’s void mask whips across the hull, T’viska pulls his hands from the console. Suuir will take them home.

In the silence, as Warren hoists the basket between his chest, arms and knees, he listens to the ship rumble beneath him. The clicking of his father’s claws snapping against the coms relay to silence – filled with the aggression of Corpus and Grineer. It’s an adjustments that clicks into hold, as the warframe releases a breath he never knew he had held. Through the monitors his horn-arched head tilts and sways, a moment of anxiety that beads against the teenager’s throat as he watches.

Warren swallows. “You have a mission to go on when we get back… don’t you.”

T’viska’s features halt – merely a moments pause of the inescapable tone that bleeds over the somatic link. Not an accusation… a worry, a swallowing hesitation of fear heating within the loki’s chest. “Yes,” he whispers, claws tapping through the console. Idle motions to keep himself active. “I’m afraid so.”

“When?” mumbles against his scarf, the teeanger’s eyes turn downcast and sullen.

“Once we get back…” the loki sighs.

Nothing, but the rustle of clothing against the wicker basket held against Warren’s chest.

The loki’s claws click against the dashboard as he keeps on a lookout for rouge projectiles that might in danger the ship. On edge as they cruise through the wreckage of a Corpus patrol ship, deflecting the scorched wreckage the warframe dare not identify. When he looks to the side… neither has Warren.

His sights downcast. Barely moving with the shutters of the vessel’s minor course corrections.

T’viska frowns.

With a sigh and a soothed exhale right after, he wets his mouth. The black tendrils keep themselves withdrawn. “Don’t chase the pain, it’s okay.” He lulls, reclining back onto the pilot seat. “You’ve been fighting against the stream.” A breakage of the old hymn he’d construct so long ago… when it was nothing but following orders from Orokin Directors. “And you’ve done… enough.” The loki sighs, staring out at the skies beyond.

In the co-pilot seat, Warren remains silent.

“Feel the pain, it’s okay. We’ve made it through another day,” the warframe hums, “with strength they can’t take away.”

“Hush now, it’s okay,” their voices merge, ebbing through as tears sting against the loki’s end of the transference connection. “When all you - ” T’viska end fragments.

“I want to do is scream,” and Warren’s voice catches, cracking through the tears.

“I’m here when you can’t speak,” T’viska continues as the ship eases into its meager hanger bay, a connection that snaps their ship into place. “Rest now, it’s okay,” T’viska continues as the liset’s connectors pin into the orbiter humming somewhere far from the blips of conflict. Against the teenager’s hesitation, the warframe scoops him up into his arms. Messing his cresting horns against the furls of auburn an honest smile tainted by the knowledge he has to leave again. “Ease away from pain and shut out the noise.” A cradling he carries out to the ramp connecting them into the orbiter above. “Let yourself find that inner peace.”

In an exchange of their motions, Warren drops down to the center of the ramp, hands wrung around the railing as the warframe keeps hold of the basket in that moment. As his arms reach out for his father… only the basket is exchanged with a sobering smile. “Sleep now, my son. I’ll try not to get too banged up,” the singing nature ceases, cut short by the assignment he needs to get to.

“I’ll wait… and I’ll be here,” the teenager brings to end the lullaby, watching once more as the loki departs.

And once more.

Warren sits alone, save for the Cephalon presiding over the systems and the direct connection to the warframe lying in the other room.

Against curling palms, tears stain.

“A burden…” he whispers, head curling down. “Just a burden.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Updates might be spotty for the next few months! Some subject matter can be very hard for me to tackle, especially later events I have planned. Be understanding of this, thank you~!


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -+- Kudos, sharing, and comments are encouraged! -+-
> 
> Tags will be updated over time.

A bare palm clutches against his gut as the burn of a projectile stings, Warren hissing out the aches of pain as he listens in on the frequencies. Tapped into the coms-links by Cephalon Suuir, Warren barely takes notice of the shouting over the radio his father isn’t able to hear. Connected through the same device as he coils back against the corner of the near barren residential cove. A hand held against his head, another against his stomach; a relay of injury and information as the warframe ducks beneath the swing of a prodman’s prova. The brief of an electric glance.

It’s a bite that stings against the teenager’s spine as the motions ebb through his nerves. Connected to the warframe’s pain receptors and tapped into the chatter of the Corpus and Grineer coms-link. It’s through the bombardment of orders screamed against his crested head he’s able to preempt the oncoming reinforcements, the squad seeking out the bounding loki as he clambers through the rumble of lunar dust.

“Is the liset in position for extraction?” the warframe huffs through the coms-link as he leaps over the ruins of a corpus moa. His paws squish against the spilling proxy oil as he aches into the remnants of his energy. And beneath the cloak T’viska prances between armored Grineer reinforcements, staring after the bulk of a bombard and their steaming ogris.

“It is,” Warren whispers; his thoughts bleeding beneath the bombardment of the coms-link merge. Noise that swarms through his thoughts as the Cephalon guides the liset to open its rear hatch in anticipation for the cargo held within golden claws. “Extraction is at the edge of the next ridge.” He relays Suuir’s comments as he clutches his gut.

“Good,” the warframe huffs as he rolls himself out of the way of another group of soldiers – crewmen more precisely as the factions round into one another as the coms-link recall the warframe’s position as lost – carrying the sensitive cargo scavenged from vessel now embedded on the lunar surface.

With the warframe on his way to extraction, the earlier bullet ricochet barely aches in the teenager’s gut as he shuffles himself back against the cushion, breath stinging in its inhale. Easing himself for the call on confirmation as a stray projectile pelts within his shoulder. A hiss, a grunt, Warren can feel the warframe tumble on the other end of the connection. Over the connection he can hear the warframe apologize, pick himself up, and stumble up the liset ramp where he’s finally safe.

T’viska sighs as he drops into the pilot seat as the cephalon takes control of the vessel. Stammering vents heave as steam breathes, exhaling deep into the comforting compression of security as he tosses the retrieved unit into the co-pilot seat. A data-log scorched by flames, yet still recoverable.

Golden claws tap against the overhead console as the liset lulls itself between the contested space. “Warren, talk to me,” he sighs, hand held against the projectile sticking out of his shoulder.

“I’m fine,” responds through the coms-link. Bitter stung in the nervous transfer of pain receptors.

A settled sigh eases through the warframe’s internals, prying against the metal embedded into his shoulder blade. “Good,” he breathes, “I’m going to pull this out, okay?”

Silence; barely a confirmation as he can feel as the teenager’s hand mirrors his own.

Digging against the sickly sting, the warframe winces, finding old of the ailing metal fragment as it slices against his flesh. In a singular motion he yanks it free, spraying a trail of black blood upon the inner deck. The shrapnel clatters against the metal in small resounds, lost among the darkness of the vessel as the loki’s hand returns to the minor bleeding. His breathing sighs.

On the line, Warren remains quiet, kept huddled in the edge of the residential quarters and waiting.

T’viska lies back on the pilot seat, rolling his shoulders as he waits for the ache to cease. “How was that integration, Warren? Tapped into the enemy coms.”

“It’s… overwhelming,” the tenno huffs, settling himself back within the corner, pulling himself into a recline as his legs wedge out from beneath him. “I couldn’t understand anything aside from what Suuir could translate from their garbles,” he huffs. “I don’t want to sit on the sidelines,” fumes, and he crawls himself up to his feet, hand holstered over his shoulder. Only on the warframe’s end is there bleeding.

Easing past the crates pressed against the wall, he wanders over to the observation pane on the other side of the room, where it gazes out to the depths of a planetary horizon line. Lua, humbled by the fragments glinting behind its orbit, sits on the other side of earth. Warren holds his hand against the faux glass, stepping back as he looks to the ceiling and to Suuir buried within the wall’s recesses. “If Suuir had his audio processes… he could just do the same thing. I want to be on the field, dad. Not relaying information.”

The loki sighs, pelting amongst his cortex as his head lies back, horns piercing up towards the ceiling. Blood soaked claws hold against the gold plating on his temple, eye spots scrunching against their illuminating seams. A constant coms-link merely extubates the teenage stubbornness; the narrow margin between being active and placid teetering. The worry of causing harm to Warren corrodes as the tenno presses himself to be present. All to use to it.

T’viska’s maw contorts as his forearms press against his forehead, beneath his arching horns as he hammers himself to think. To think of some solution. Warren was right – if Suuir did have audio processes, that’s all he’d be doing. Warren was merely a replacement of that.

And he frowns.

He’s completely right.

With a huff, the warframe settles himself upright once more. What about the back room of the orbiter?

“Warren,” he starts.

“Mhm?” on the other end of the somatic signal, a gloved hand moves against the hologram canvas and splays over the transponders and ship codes given by the ships within the lunar distance fold. Pricklets of numbers string out from the central coordinates as the map moves with his turning palm. Hands finicking as he tries to adjust to the control method.

“In the back room of the orbiter, I think there’s a somatic cradle,” the loki’s voice calls through the headset hooked over the tenno’s ear. “It doesn’t look like the ones on Lua, but think that’s worth a chance?”

Warren pauses, thumb rolling the map as his thoughts linger.

“Maybe,” the tenno whispers, turning his attention to the blip that draws the cephalon’s attentive crosshairs. “You’re on the scope,” Warren mumbles, digits drawing the sensors to aim around the liset on its approach.

“We’ll work on that then,” the warframe exhales, hailing the liset to pilot itself into position. “I’ll be aboard in a few minutes. We’ll try that then, okay?”

“Okay,” and Warren’s hand withdraws from taking control of the hologram display, signaling to Cephalon Suuir to delude it back to the faux observation window. An exhale tones his mood as he steps away, staring out in the vast emptiness before he turns. “I’ll wait there for you,” a faint smile stains his appearance, the scarf laid abandoned on the seat. An improvement, a worth that clings in the back of his mind.

His gloved hand scratches beneath the chin of the green-eyed kavat, the feline’s ears arch backwards from where they lie upon the cushions, a singular paw reaching out to catch the teenager’s coat. Failing that, the animal stretches their limbs as Warren watches; claws arching within the empty air as he walks back to the door.

 

 

In the back room, the loki kneels behind the somatic cradle. His golden claws prod against the arboriform growths infused to the machine, tinkering with the myriad of connections as the cephalon banters across his vision. It’s a conversation exclusive to them as Warren waits at the edge of the ramp embankment, and between his palms the brown-toned kavat basks in the scratching attention. Against his finger tips he can feel the irritating itch of electrical bites that jolt through his nerves as his paternal figures argue amongst themselves.

‘The somatic system connection is strong enough already,’ the cephalon’s words bake across the warframe’s vision as he reaches around the thick and creaking branches dug into the cradle. Delicate fingers itch against the fasteners in the back of the machinery in a third passing, gold scratching the edge of a screwdriver into the thick bolt settlements. Suuir’s representation prods against the loki’s concentration as he sits wedged between the machine and the guard rails peering over the core. With a short cry, the warframe shakes his hand – electricity surging through his arm.

Half way across the room the teenager barely flinches as the pain transfers to him, embedded his stinging fingers into the kavat’s fur. “Almost done back there?” Warren glances over his shoulder, to where the warframe is obscured by the cradle’s arching antennas.

“Almost,” the loki calls back, hustling his stinging hand between his opposing bicep and ribs. His features flinching as he mumbles under his breath, “ouch, clumsy lil shit,” he briefly fumes. T’viska’s horns scratching against the harsh metal that makes the cradle’s frame.

‘It’s fine, T’viska,’ Suuir taps across his vision, tetrahedron visage building itself into a collapse as the halo oscillates. ‘Just let him at least try it before you fuck with it anymore,’ scrawls.

“Right, right,” the loki grumbles, reaching back across the antenna as his body slips beneath an over reaching arboriform branch. He snakes himself beneath the structures as he works himself free of the sturdy frame, dusting himself of the glinting dust where he at last sits. “Suuir is watching the connection,” he calls over, reaching against the cradle’s metal frame, pulling himself to stand. “He’ll be monitoring it from within, if there’s anything off he can abort it.”

‘At your request,’ the cephalon sighs, keeping himself from making his reluctance present to the tenno.

Half turned back, the teenager is slow to pull himself free from the kavat’s relaxed weight. Warren’s sight stays centered on the machine as its harsh clasps hang open around the small seating cradle, briefly reclined for comfort. A hesitant choke squeezes down his throat as he pulls himself to his feet, brows scrunching as he musters against the anxiety baking in the back of his thoughts. Even though he’s safe within his new environment… the call back of forceful compliance stings. His hand rests against the snarl of his exposed teeth and gums.

T’viska walks over to him.

“It’s okay, Warren. If you don’t want to do it right now, we can wait,” the loki whispers, claws resting against the teenager’s shoulders.

“No, I’m fine,” Warren lies. “Just… just give me a moment.” And his bright eyes look up to the warframe, following his father’s movements as he steps back with a short nod and the whisper of ‘okay’.

You’re okay…. the tenno has to brief himself as he looks back to the machine. Where the arboriforms that once basked beneath cold waters sit in the open air, illuminating the somatic chamber with their glow.

You’re okay… Warren affirms with himself, pulling his hand from his face as he moves forward.

At his own volition.

It feels…. different to accept it as a choice. Unpressured by vicious hands or the threat of pain, fingers tracing against the framework of the cradle as he stands before the towering machine. It hums the air before him, around him as the antennas sit proudly pronged at the sides and cresting top. The shape less streamline, crude in its structure opposed to the glint and glamor of the somatic cradles he was forced into again and again. Where he had felt only pain as Warren eases himself down into the cushion, head reclining back as he finds the curves press against his form.

Padded portions cushion him to ease back, hands resting over the guides at the edge of the somatic cradle, easing back and over the arm rests built into the seat’s foundation.

Never once does he close his eyes, watching the envelope folds come together before him, separating him from the room from his point of view. Light bleeds in from lower in the chair, where the joints lie relaxed under what he assumes is Suuir’s control of the mechanism. Rationality that bleeds into his nerves as the machine hums against his mind, scratching against his concentration as his mind is drawn into the somatic link process once more.

Outside of his control, his head aches back, pressing against tension that reserves in the back of his neck, scratching his eyes shut as the vessel hums. A tightness aching inside his concentration, squeezing his brain as the somatic relay connects to his intermittent signal. It crushes around his concentration, thoughts in a disarray as he can feel the poke and prods in his neural connections. The semblance of the cephalon’s manipulation as he writhes in the temptation of agony, where a crest of pain blinds against his thoughts. Biting and snarling, teeth gnashing as the old machine struggles to function, to find Warren’s neural connection as the arboriforms ache and bloom.

In a rush, it makes its confirmation, releasing the teenager from the stranglehold as he finds himself able to breathe, to exhale as his hands hold around his throat.

“Dad,” he finds himself whimper – and so does T’viska’s voice.

Between the chair and the loki’s own sensory sight his eyes spring open, preceptive in two as one as his hands hold in front and beneath his sight line. Gloved hands are illuminated in the glow of the seeping light, and the warframe’s golden claws glint in arboriform baked lighting.

Looking up, his visual and neural sight lands upon the legs sitting beneath the folds of the somatic cradle – his own legs. And upon closer inspection, watching as the envelopes flip open as he moves but also does not.

Warren sees himself staring back. Cold and bright eyed, his features empty as the mouth of exposed teeth hang limp and numbed. “Dad…?” trembles – and he can see his own mouth move, but it’s T’viska’s that comes forth from the body he possesses. Hands rise into his vision – it’s the warframes.

And Warren can hear nothing inside his head.

Panic bites into his lungs, a tremble as he shunts himself back into himself, back into the chair where his hands struggle to find foundation. Nervous numb his legs lose ground, stumbling with an anxious crash in the aftershock of the neural connection. It lingers as he strains to take control of his body, a partial incoherent property that finds him choking on his breath. A struggle that fights against his sight as he coils against the somatic shock.

It hurts.

It stings as he swallows down the reactive panic clutched in his throat.

T’viska.

What happened? Warren’s throat chokes. Is he okay?

Claws against his side answer the panic plaguing his mind, coaxing him and easing into a lean against supportive palms. His own clutch against his coat as his mind continues to surge, contesting against the neural interlay plaguing his thoughts. “It hurts,” he barely manages to whimper as he holds himself restrained.

At his side, the loki’s features lie crossed. ‘Suuir, what happened?’ he questions the cephalon, anger stinging against his internal coms-link. Maw scowling and hustled against the scrunching of bright eye spots.

‘It, it seems to have worked correctly,’ the cephalon fumbles, seeping against the data streams, the somatic cradle’s internal intricates and the sensitive functionality. ‘Everything seems to be nominal, all according to code.’ He hushes as he observes the pair, as Warren scrambles himself to find comfort from the loki.

T’viska eases his son close, pressing his head into the teenager’s hair as he snags the cephalon once more in conversation. ‘Then what happened, Suuir.’

‘I, I don’t know,’ the cephalon admits, scouring through the activity logs. ‘It might be a compatibility issue, perhaps? His heart rate spiked when the chair fused with his somatic signal.’ The tetrahedron that represents the cephalon eases around, its halo osculating as text beeps through T’viska’s vision. ‘Give him some time…’

Against Warren’s crown, T’viska frowns.

“You okay, kid?” The loki whispers down, golden claws releasing the teenager’s coat.

“I’m… I’m okay,” Warren sniffs against T’viska’s chest, his palms still held tight around the warframe’s back.

The loki’s arms drop as he looks down over the trembling tenno, a hand coming up to pat his back. “Don’t push yourself further than you can handle, Warren… we can work on it later. Okay?” T’viska pulls him into another hug. “We’ve got plenty of time to figure it out.”

“I know,” the teenager mumbles between them, forcing himself to look up at his father. Tears and mucus sticking against his face, “but I’m just…” he huffs, burying his face against the warframe’s chest. “I’m scared… of what’d happen.”

With a gentle sigh, T’viska returns the compassion as he presses the tenno’s face into his shoulder. “I know,” wrenches through his throat. And he eases himself to the side, a brief suggestion to give the teenager space to breath as he hiccups, messing his face against his coat sleeve with a disgusted expression. “We’ll try tomorrow, okay? Give yourself time to recover,” he suggests, pulling himself from the teenager’s haphazard sitting posture. “Come on,” he suggests, holding his hands out.

Warren, after a shaking glance, takes them in stride, snarling as he tries to find his legs again. He’s barely able to keep upright, none the less able to remain stable as his brain scrambles with the neural somatics. “Do you have a job coming up?” he fumbles as he has to rely on the warframe to move, steps stumbling after the warframe’s careful steps.

“Yeah,” T’viska sighs, “but it’s a stealth mission… just relax while I’m gone, Warren. Don’t strain yourself.”

The tenno’s eyes downcast, sullen and empty of rational as his unscarred mouth twists. Stubborn.

But, he accepts it as the loki guides him back to the residential quarters. His concentration fumbling, exhausted.

By the time Warren wakes up, the ship is quiet; and Suuir watches the loki’s signal on a corpus ship.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -+- Kudos, sharing, and comments are encouraged! -+-

There’s a slighted snarl as the teen’s neural signal entwines with the somatic link. It surges within his mind, an overload of senses and ebbing terror as his mind downs in the coerced memories so long passed. The shattering of limbs, the organic blowouts that left him to stumble and heave. Snapping, infusing, angst and anger tremor through Warren’s psyche as he wrestles against somatic assimilation – ever so agonizing as he falters through the faint whisper of Orokin control, the to and fro of makeshift directions not of his own. Their words bite in the back of his mind, worst only the endurance run of another body count. Against dissidents and sentients, war wrought and wounded in mental inlays as he was left to suffer and cry.

Angry tears splotch his vision, teeth in a grit as his emotions surge against the somatic cradle’s neural function overrides. It is against the agonizing thought of losing the tatters of self-control – exerting against the prying within his mind as his head presses back and brows scrunch. Aggressive against the faints of Orokin puppetry as the somatic connection scratches against the sync frequency, the code where in Warren doesn’t fit.

It snaps as the teenager exhales, tugging himself free from the connection – a space to breathe.

The cradle is not going to dictate what he’s to do.

And Warren plunges himself in again as he sits back.

He scrawls against the connection, clawing through the frequency chatter that pecks against his mind, numb to the cephalon’s pleas and nervous tinkering within the somatic cradle’s properties. They’re not attuned, not right he admits – its resisting the teenager’s exertions, treating him as though an intruder. An unconfirmed operator within its code that is as foreign to Suuir as it is to the tenno tangling himself in the interlay. Within that same depth the cephalon bickers against the warframe’s coms-link, steaming about the stubborn tenno and the reconnections that surge. Rudimentary complaints feed out against T’viska; to get Warren to stop pestering the connection even though the loki lies beneath foliage, his sight through a sniper’s scope.

His cheek lies pressed against a boulder, “Suuir, he’s your problem right now,” he sighs back through the coms-link, eyeing the cephalon’s sporadic frequency disruptions. “Give the kid some more time, I’m sure you can figure out the solution.” The loki grunts as he shuffles, adjusting his golden claw grip.

The tetrahedron complex that makes the cephalon’s presence surges, cycle halo scratching. ‘He’s your son, T’viska. And he can’t listen to me.’ Suuir is sure to make his point prominent, engrossing the warframe’s sight with the declaration of his lacking auditory precept.

To the silence the warframe returns, the emotive line embedded in the glass-like phantasm creases. Process halo pressing into a thin empty rotation.

Foliage shuffles behind the loki as one foot scratches against his opposite hock.

“I’ll talk to him when I can, Suuir,” T’viska hustles the sniper against his shoulder. Sparks scratching against his own cortex makes it hard to concentrate. “Just… take care of him the best you can, alright?”

The cephalon blinks out of his coms-link.

Golden claws scratch against the loki’s nape as a pervading itch crawls through his spine, tapping his way through the makeshift coms-link connection he had encoded for Warren. The briefest of a confirmation call goes unnoted, mute, unheard as the warframe shuffles where he lies. “Warren, can you pick up for me, bud?” His jaw comes to rest against the boulder once more as he spies through the scope of his rubico, watching the transport drivers ease their vehicles into place.

Sensory fingers curl against his crown as he aims down the sight, reticule lingering over one of the drivers as they exit their vehicle.

T’viska exhales as he adjusts his aim, muting his coms-link properties. “I’ll be home soon…” he whispers.

And fires.

 

The hatch between the orbiter’s hanger and the central quarters hisses as claws click against the metal railing, impatient as the chill draws him to shiver. Snow clings between the creases in his horns as the loki pulls himself inside, skin in a shiver as the snow-made chill clings against his limbs, and the gust of mechanical-made gasses doesn’t bolster the warframe’s mood. Nonchalant, he tosses the sniper into the corner where the rest of his armaments reside with a scoff, his maw twisting into a snarl as cold jaws pry against the fabric. A sigh breathes through his huffing lungs as he pulls the material free from the dark scars dig through his torso, shivering as the wet material brushes along the drenched forearms.

Tossing the shirt aside into the foundry, T’viska lands himself onto a crate.

Against better judgement, his shivering claws pry out the snap connection that keeps the cloth around his damaged forearm, unraveling the material to drape over his leg as he allows the ship’s air to breathe against the exposed muscle. The dark tyrian purple leaves a mild hue against the white fabrics, the kiss of exposed muscles where skin refuses to grow back.

With a sigh, the loki turns to his other forearm, dumping the wraps into a bin at his side.

T’viska, stripped of the wet fabric, dunks his forearms into the warm waters of the medical chamber.

It stings as he remains in the kneeling crouch, hands flexing and curling as he endures the sting of tainted waters. Claws glinting in the low light as he distracts himself with the glowing flora edging the room. A bath of ointment waters wavers with the engine’s pulses, carrying the echoes of mechanical motions as it courses itself into a new direction. One mission after the next.

“How’s Warren?” he questions as he finishes counting down the seconds his arms bathe in the eradiated waters – a reservoir for the coolant rods deep inside the vessel’s belly.

‘He’s asleep,’ the cephalon remarks, flourishing into the edge of the loki’s vision. ‘Your son plunged himself in until he wore himself out. Now he’s passed out at the edge of the ramp.’

The warframe’s features lie crossed, eyespots scrunching.

As he shakes the warm water from his forearms, T’viska rises to his feet.

“How many times did he try…?” A swollen question, a clawing against his nerves as he presses out the linger taint of the engine’s waters with a cloth.

‘Five to six times,’ the cephalon rebounds at the edge of the warframe’s optical receptors, words stinging.

To T’viska, it was all a blur.

“You say he’s napping, right?” The loki tucks the towel into the recesses of the metal interior, wandering past the slide of the bulkhead door frame towards the somatic chamber.

Warren has curled himself at the edge of the ramp, a hustle of clothing pulled disheveled, hair matted with the stain of tears as the loki’s claws brush his tussled hair to one side. Sweat sticks fabric to skin as the warframe’s grip pries down beneath the coat once pulled over the tenno’s head, easing it back into place as he pulls the exhausted teenager from the floor. Hands remain curled into the coat’s weave material, prying in sleeping motions as he’s pulled into a sitting position. T’viska flinches, bare muscle against harsh material.

Claws tug one leg up, followed by another as the warframe grunts – pulling the sleeping teen against his chest as he moves to a crouch. One leg under the other, T’viska lifts him from the floor. ‘Suuir, have you done anything with that chair yet..?’ A pry of question as he moves himself to the door.

‘Not yet,’ the cephalon’s words daunt at the edge of his vision, ‘I was too busy trying to keep it from overloading. Your son kept butting against the circuitry to the point it might’ve had irreversible effects.’

Wandering into the sanctity of the residential quarters, the loki huffs. ‘After I put him to bed, we’re working on it.’ His clawed feet straighten the lower blanket as he continues to hold the teen. ‘There has to be some mismatch in there somewhere. Maybe its not calibrated right.’ He kicks a pillow into place, nearly losing his footing before he could drop Warren to the floor. With the makeshift bedding fixed, he drops to a kneel, letting the tenno curl into the fabric.

He pulls the thick blanket over the boy, turning back to the ceiling. ‘I was able to connect with the thing somehow last month, so it should be possible again, right?’

‘Surely, yes, but T’viska,’ the tetrahedron shape sputters indecisive. ‘That was to pin down whatever ‘ghost’ you felt.’

‘But it still remembers the signal, right?’ T’viska carries himself out of the room, returning to the central area for a new wrap of bandages. Crossing them over the back of his palm, he tests out the length as it hangs, seating himself before he begins the wrapping process. “Deep in there, there’s something in its logics that’s rejecting his connection – it’s probably tuned to who ever had this ship last.”

‘Of course,’ the cephalon pries, humming with a backgrounding light – processes half divided to the somatic cradle. ‘But with him bludgeoning it, hard to find something like that.’

“Yeah,” sighs. Gold claws pulling the wrapping tight, length over length. “He’s dedicated, at least,” the loki exhales, flexing his muscles beneath the binding, snapping it into place after one final tightening. “It’s all he had to do before, gets him focused; I guess.” T’viska moves to the other length of wrapping, “there’s… a great deal of resentment, to just sitting around,” he mumbles.

The cephalon remains quiet, as the warframe picks through his musings.

“He just doesn’t want to be alone, Suuir. The kavats only do so much,” a statement that compounds as he looks over to where the pair curl up in a corner – nestled beneath a heat vent. “And you’re not much in the position to care-take.”

Edges of the warframe’s mouth flinch, coursing into a frown as he pulls the material around his forearm. “Poor kid’s been alone before I found him… guess I’m all he’s got,” he whispers, eyespots scrunching. “Suuir… I can feel his pain.”

‘You two do share a lot in common,’ Suuir half remarks, prying through the ship’s internals. ‘Tried to flush it of any pre-existing connection, might need to nullify the security protocols to make it happen. Denied me.’

T’viska sighs, leaning against his knees, staring out into the endless distance that is his thoughts. “Makes sense, never came with the ship so don’t have the proper authorization.”

‘Wasn’t there a previous cephalon…?’

A shake of a horned head. “Negative, or at least don’t remember there being one. That’s why I installed you, remember?”

‘It’s just been a long time,’ the cephalon rummages. ‘Ship will go dark when I reboot, hold tight.’

It only takes the briefest of a pause before T’viska is plunged into the encompassing darkness, rising to his feet as the vessel’s backup generators kick in. They line the walkways, the ramp that leads down into the lower chambers. Bathed in the minor glow of orange, T’viska follows the lines of mere light, his paws finding their way as the ship surges beneath his feet, moving through the silence and into the arboriform bloom of the somatic chamber. It sits still in its eclipsing silence, shading his footfalls as his approach.

Around the warframe, the lights snap back into completion, a bloom that blinds through the arboriforms that weave through the back of the chamber, preluding the systemic shudder as the ship lurches. His cyan-tone eyespots narrow as the ship hums around him, hustled by the hiccup as the somatic cradle envelops snap closed. ‘Wiping its authorized connections now,’ the cephalon announces.

It hums before him, the inner workings stand illuminated as the weave of fluctuating circuitry reaches out in protest, scratching against the warframe’s mind. Drawing him to cease, to wait out the daunting mood that casts against his nerves in a burst of energy. Freeing notions protesting the override, searching for completion and a function to mesh its need. Neurological firings daunting as it lashes out, screaming, glitching against his vision as the white noise pervades. Searching.

And in a moment, it snaps back into silence. Envelope folds held firm as the arboriforms bloom behind it… and ease open once more as the glowing fades.

‘It’s wiped,’ Suuir flickers into the warframe’s vision. ‘Should allow him now, in theory.’

“Yeah,” the warframe turns, unaccompanied as he returns to the upper deck. Hands trembling as he pulls the old stained wraps into the cleaning cycle. “We’ll try again after he wakes up,” T’viska sighs, hands fiddling with his arm wraps. “Until then, I’m going to clean up. Clear my head,” hushes beneath his breath, plucking the rubico from where it laid.

 

 

Fingers curl within the tussling of auburn hair, digging and prying, seizing against the anxious beating within his chest. It presides against the dread as his nerves still ring with the somatic cradle’s revolts, the scratching of somatic nerves uprooted, mind throttled with active resentment against the self. It burns against Warren’s palms, numbing against the warmth encompassing him in a sudden jolt. Semi-conscious hands yank the fabric around him, cocooning as his breathing panics, anxious, choking as the stains of tears ache against his face and drip into his exposed mouth. Teeth that chatter with hushed mumbles, fumbling.

He’s safe… he’s okay.

Recoiling inside the entombing blanket, Warren kicks it beneath him, coursing it around himself as motions are made of mere reactive need and hurting. Why did it reject him…?

Throwing it to the side in a hustle – a flailing of limbs pushes the blanket away from himself as he moves into a hurried half sit. Once frantic to still, motionless, Warren stares out into the depths beyond the faux visage of the residential chamber. Lit only by the lights dispelled by the glass display as his body trembles – in cold and hushed frustration.

Fist curl against his cheeks, against the exposed muscles on the left of his face as he sits there. Wiping them away, grinding them into the fabric of his pants beneath his half-on gloves. Beneath him he finds his posture, pulling his gloves to form fit as he pushes himself back against the wall, tugging the blanket around himself as he glares into the depths captured by the external cameras. On the cushion to his side, where the coms-link visual transponder sits, the cephalon flickers.

Warren ignores the flicker of text as he buries himself in the blanket, breath forced against the folds in deep exhales and trembles of inhales. He’s done it so many more times, why wasn’t he able to – was he broken now? Was there something wrong with him now, denied and rejected from the connection? Warren bites against what remains of his bottom lip, hand curling into his furling hair, throwing the hood of his jacket over himself. He tucks his face against his knees as he stares past the material, away from where he knew he was carried.

Stumbling from the somatic cradle, choking and whimpering – messing his hair in tear laden palms and the slumping of exhaustion. A mess as he tried to work his legs beneath him; stunted and numbed, every part of him under the somatic assault – why wouldn’t it just let him do what he wanted. He was a natural – the Orokin paraded it around as so.

Connecting so easily to those they disregarded, a body to the slaughter.

Hands press against his fabric covered mouth.

What was wrong with him…?

Has he finally snapped?

Why can’t he fucking do anything?

Yanking the blankets around his face, he shunts out the brink of sobs that teether in his throat. A terror that seizes through his thoughts. Busted. No good. Worthless.

Stop.

With an exhale, he forces himself to sit firm, eyes drifting closed.

‘Just… stop,’ whispers amongst himself. To focus outside the turmoil, the aching still beating inside his nerves from the somatic shock. A palm digs through his hair, a slow shuffle that turns to vicious shuffle as he strains to rub at the aching in his brain, the daunting tension headache pressing within his scalp.

“Warren.” His head snaps up; eying T’viska standing on the other side of the bench, slow in his approach. “How’re ya doing kid?” Whispers.

The tenno sinks back amongst the blankets, sight cast adverted to the floor before flickering over the fabric folds. “I’m fine…” he mumbles, half gritting through his teeth as the staining still aches in his eyes, wiping it away in a frantic gesture. It’s a fumbling that preludes the warframe coming to sit at his side, exhaling as he seats himself into the cushions, staring out into the darkness opposite of them both.

A sigh eases through the warframe’s form. From shoulders to legs T’viska lets himself relax, breath exhaling through the furls at the side of his chest and through the gaps between his teeth.

Silence.

Silence accompanies them.

Watching as a vessel eases past the orbiter’s sight – ship oddly still.

“It hurts, doesn’t it…?” T’viska whispers, gazing down at the teenager huddling himself amongst the blanket, shading his face from the glow of the screen.

It’s a silence that pervades as words fumble through the teenager’s thoughts. Which part, all of it? Because he took too long, because he was too eager, he’s broken it. And now he’d be useless; should’ve stayed in the old cradle. At least he had a purpose but now –

“Suuir took a look at the chair, earlier,” breathes from the warframe, head tilting back onto the platform the cushions are built into. Legs crossing over legs, he settles his pose, comfortable, relaxed; biting at his lip as he stares into the ceiling as the blaze of somatic ache scratches at his nerves. “There was a connection issue that was preventing you from connecting to it. He thinks it’s been resolved now.”

Warren doesn’t move from his spot – at least just yet as he sinks deeper into the blanket, lets kicking out beneath him where the boots slide one by one against the plated floor. Beneath the dim light, his brilliant eyes stare out half sunk, exhausted. With an exhale, he shuffles to stand, “guess I should get to it then, huh…” he whispers.

Claws seize his shoulders, forcing him back to a sit. “No, Warren, you need to rest,” and they release him, pulling back to the cushions as the teenager wraps himself once more in the linens, sight down cast and away. Against the material he huffs, a myriad of relief and anxiety as he coils the blanket around himself, throwing it over his head into a hood and stares out into the dark of space. At his side, the warframe sits in a recline, “we have time, don’t push yourself,” a softened exhale. “When you’re completely fine… then we’ll try again, okay?”

“What if I fuck up again,” Warren sneers, his brows lied crossed. Hands dig into the fabric of his coat and the blanket.

There’s a slight glace from the warframe, turning back after a surveying glance. “That hasn’t stopped you before,” he tempts, focus switched from his right to left. Hesitant. “Whatever encoding was left in the chair, Suuir wiped it. That might’ve been the only thing preventing you from making the connection stable.”

Quiet air stings in the loki’s throat, glancing back to the ceiling.

Warren exhales, curling himself back down to the pillow, nestling back towards the sanctity of sleep.

As the rustling of cloth eases into silence, claws click amongst another in the nervous shade of darkness, fingers that fiddle, finding their way up shoulder to the crease of the loki’s horns. T’viska stares off into the far distant depth as he remains firmly on the bench – forcing himself up to sit. At his side, he listens to the muffled anxiety that speaks against the material. A tapping of stretched legs, the rustling of sheets, the briefest of disturbed sleep as the warframe watches the sun speckle in the far distance beyond the bounds of a crossing freighter.

Lights dance over the gaze of the screen, shimmering into fades before the warframe raises his hand, signing out the entry numerals. As he coaches through the array of information, the loki remains in silence, holding himself dignified. Alternations between meditation and planning out upcoming jobs on the market, fetching against the numerous spies, captures, and sabotages.

He glances over to where Warren lies asleep.

Gold claws cup against the tenno’s shoulders, a minor gesture that holds against the teen’s armor. There’s a moment of pause as it holds there, looked over for as he waits for him. Words sting in his throat – a torrent that pills over into his own chest. “You’re not broken, Warren,” he whispers, looking back to the system beyond the gaze of the holograph system. “You’re just healing,” his mouth flinches, prying through the slips of assignments.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -+- Kudos, sharing, and comments are encouraged! -+-
> 
> Tags will be updated over time.

His exhale is slow, reclining back into the embrace of the somatic cradle as the device hums beneath him. Hesitation shoved aside, Warren flinches as the feeling of somatic connections interlay as his head leans back, breathing slow as his fingers grip against the hand rests built into the cradle. Nerves tremble beneath the drawl of the assuming neural connections, traces buried within his skull and against his mind, a swallowing of a semi-anxious heart he swallows down.

Registration; a nervous bleeding of past and present as the connections embed into his mind, languishing in slurred motions as his eyes remain closed – his mouth twists into a snarl beneath the scarf kept around his face. His presence the only life-sign registry, thumping within his chest as it strangles through his chest – the same ebbing constraint as he laid in an Orokin design tomb. A simmering motion clutching within his throat – one Warren swallows down. Just another connection… at his own choice; a quivering reminder.

The flesh of what remains of his left cheek pulses.

A reminder of his damages – of stumbling out of the somatic cradle gagging and choking, trembling out on jelly legs. Of the repetitive damages not inlayed to his skin, but to those far too gone now.

His brows scrunch, a tussling of his head as he presses back against the somatic link’s stranglehold. Resistance.

He’s not something’s puppet.

Against the shell of the cradle, golden claws knock and draw him out of his own head. “Warren, remember to breath,” the loki’s voice calls from the other side of the enveloping shell. “How are you feelin in there, kid?”

“Ah… nervous,” Warren swallows, at edge as sensations pervade within his thoughts. Pricklets of sensation that neither bring pain or calm; just the mind notion of their presence within his head – observing him as his eyes fall open to the inner portion of the shell. “Whatever Suuir did… works I guess,” he swallows, motions idle as a hand brushes against his cheek and the empty dry beneath his eyes.

“That’s good,” T’viska exhales, hand held against the somatic cradle’s shell. “Has the pain settled out? Anything feel out of the ordinary?”

The teenager swallows, prying through his own mind in the mimicry of peeling his brain open mentally; though there still persists the sensation of another in his mind – the somatic link left open, disconnected from the world and clutching within his spine. It draws him through old sensations – yanked and pulled, shunted away to peruse another mission. A lingering that daunts against his reservations. “It’s… just different.” He whispers, “makes me a bit nervous,” a smile briefs beneath the scarf, his breath breathing back into his face.

“Are you completely okay with staying in there while I’m out?” the warframe calls through, “if not, we can try again next time.”

“No. I’m fine,” Warren snaps. “I’ve gone through worse.”

T’viska frowns. A softened sigh, “alright.”

He steps back, turning himself away from the somatic cradle that houses his adopted son. “Whenever you’re ready,” the warframe exhales as he stares off to the other edge of the room, to where only the steely metal lies cold. Against his thoughts he can feel the chill of the somatic link reconnect, fusing through his nerves anew and scratching down his spine. Spinal connections fuse in the base of his skull, aching around the transference bolt embedded in his spine as a golden claw grip holds at it – the other hand balling into a fist.

Through his nerves he can feel the sympathetic fusion take hold – a wrestling of nervous control at first as they dictate between who owns what, which limb sensory is connected to which body. The facial slits remain closed as their neurals inlay, senses merged through optical sensors. Hand for hand, they test their motions, their senses as muscle groups transfer from one consciousness to the other, smooth and seamless as the loki’s arms are given over to the teenager’s thoughts sat behind the warframe.

Their transference link, holding, a statement that taps in the corner of the warframe’s vision.

‘Is that how you keep in contact with Suuir?’ Warren questions, given bodily control as the warframe reclines into numb sensations.

“Yeah, without auditory precepts it’s the only way I’m able to keep up with the missions,” the warframe exhales, verbally as his son controls his body’s movements. “how does it feel now?” he relays back, attention shifted to Suuir’s stark message.

‘We’re in orbit, T’viska,’ the cephalon’s words tap.

‘What sort of mission is it?’ Warren chirps through T’viska’s coms-link, attention inverted to the words displayed in sight as he returns the warframe’s nerves. He sits settled inside the loki’s psyche, a presence that carries through patient yet eager, observing as the warframe moves to the front of the ship. To see somewhere outside the cramped orbiter.

‘Capture of a delegate,’ Suuir’s text clicks in the perception of their vision, his tetrahedron vectors splitting at the seams as his halo surges renewed, blazing with data as T’viska carries them to the weapons bench. ‘They’ve been under watch of armed guards since another merc failed to retrieve them.’

‘What sort of area are they in?’ the teenager pipes up again, while beneath the idle chatter T’viska checks his sidearm for flaws, golden claws clicking against the lato’s shell and mechanisms as he dismantles it piece by piece – just routine, he mentions back to the teenager sharing his head space.

‘Open domain – I’ve identified a drop point area three kilometers from the target’s location,’ the cephalon continues as the warframe confirms each piece of his weapon of choice. A terrain map floats through their vision in a layout display, however it doesn’t retain the warframe’s attention, failing to cease the warframe’s activities. His attention flickers to Suuir’s impromptu mission briefing between slotting mechanisms together. A quick mission; get in get out, he supposes as he can feel the tenno’s presence lean over his senses, quiet as the cephalon lays out all the locations they can approach from.

Pre-planning routes wasn’t much T’viska’s style. Too constrictive for his taste unless he had to retrieve something within the web of a complex.

But, with it taking Warren’s attention, he doesn’t mind.

As the two banter amongst his head space, T’viska slides the lato’s barrel back into place as his attention remains far from the overlay in his optics. Tucking the fire arm into its holster at the side of his chest, he collects the clip is into the band hanging off his hip – slung from right to left, looping end to end as it remains tethered at his right hip. Golden claws clear around the work station as the two others discuss in a one-sided conversation, primarily on the environmental dangers on Titan’s altered surface. It becomes the background noise as the warframe makes a final check on the remnants of his current armaments.

‘As far as the sensors are concerned, the region around that zone is none of your concern, Warren,’ the cephalon banters back, fading out the landscape of shattered Orokin towers and debris of crumpled architecture. A side note to the task ahead of the father and son.

‘I’m aware of that,’ the teenager complains back, briefing an eye roll, ‘but I just want to know, Suuir.’

While Warren’s focus remains on the cephalon and the overlay, T’viska half turns himself to pick up a box from the back half of the work station. It easily slots itself into the upper housing shelf – the spira blades jingling as they find themselves settled out of the teenager’s reach. “We can check the area after we finish the mission, Jacob,” the warframe exhales as his paws relax against the ground, hand held against where the spiras are stored. A limited form of ease – the tenno remaining in eager conversation. “It shouldn’t take too long either way – you’ve been memorizing the layout?”

A sensory nod – a transfer through the empathetic nerves and somatic link.

“Good,” the warframe grins, “because we won’t need it.”

‘Heading in blind, as per usual,’ the teenager sighs, but keeps the orbital scan overlaying his private perception. ‘This… this is much better than the coms-link stuff,’ Warren smiles, ‘gives you another pair of eyes instead of just another distraction,’ he briefs, watching through the loki’s sight once more. To which he’s certain T’viska nods, taking the both of them down into the small hanger beneath the navigation console.

“I’ll be piloting the landing craft to the surface, then I’ll let you take over kid,” T’viska smiles, easing them with ginger steps into the liset, settling them into the pilot seat as he picks through the launch command prompts. In the back of his consciousness, he can feel the teenager’s anticipation as he flips the engines into ignition, clicking down the mechanical switches to breathe life into the vessel as he gently steers himself to remain in place. The control of a bouncing eager knee is a playful wrestle back and forth as the bay doors open, where the tenno apologizes in the loki’s head.

A smile placates the warframe’s features. Relaxed, calmed as the teenager rambles in a stellar tone. His first mission outside of Orokin control. Back out on the field after so long.

It’s a bitter taste in the loki’s maw. The interrogation device stored in a pouch at his side.

And the ship whispers out into its void cloak – bound for the glint of Triton’s cryovolcanics.

 

 

Their merged form lands with the barest breath of sound – the loki’s body ebbing beneath a cloak as T’viska stands upright, overlooking the barren lands of a once revitalized Triton. A prickly chill dances across the warframe’s skin as the tenno takes control, bolstered by the loki’s own reflexes to take them down a crumpled embankment of crushed towers and cold ammonia ash. Amongst their merging senses, the loki combs through the landscape – his body held in control by the tenno still safety snug in the orbiter.

At his sides, the warframe’s vents remained sealed from the caustic atmosphere, their breathing a mere fabrication as their steps bound through the Orokin rumble, over stepping the barren carcass of an Orokin tower. ‘These things, the towers… I always wondered what was inside them,’ the teenager mumbles amongst their connection. Muffled as a metal strut creaks beneath the loki’s paw, corrected by the warframe returning the step before letting the tenno gain control once more.

“Most of them are empty now, cannibalized by scavengers,” the loki musses, observant as he spots a cavalcade of corpus crewmen in the presence of a moa controlled. Proxies hovering around a single individual. “Jacob, try the interlay to see if they’re the target,” he motions, asserting control of his body as he springs to a higher position, gripping onto a once gilded strut dulled by ammonia and methane.

Given access for Suuir’s interface, Warren directs their sight towards the precession of Corpus proxies and armed troops. Interlay processes pulsate across their merged vision, strikes of the cephalon’s energy tones standing stark as their concentration becomes mismatched – the warframe securing himself on a tricky platform, the tenno checking against the cephalon’s database.

It becomes almost automatic, the connection meshed between warframe, tenno, and the somatic link hooked into the cephalon’s circuitry. Where the briefest of glints matches the image of their selected target and the one amongst the people before them – a compare contrast of stature, outfits, remarks logged by whomever has requested their collection.

Claws hooking into Triton rubble, they move in for a closer look.

Debris rumbles beneath their paws as they bound closer, following after the Corpus patrol as they wander beneath the remnants of what was once part of a regional defense regimen. Their steely stained metal glints in the lights of artificial creation – shining behind them as they sprint into the shadows of the structure.

‘I’m unable to determine which of them is the target – two of them too much alike without a closer look,’ Warren whispers as they pad into the echoing cavern beneath the orokin structure. In their hands – a transfer of warframe to tenno – he holds the lato drawn, a reflex carried over by the loki. The last line of defense in such tight spaces. In front of them rumbles Corpus chatter, amplified. Suuir is inattentive, the mission doesn’t require him anyway.

‘Seems like they’re accessing the scenery – delegate for a contract company looking for a new venue,’ T’viska whispers, observing the two that closest match the capture contract. ‘They’re in front, rest behind them are guards. Heavily armed,’ he notes, focused before him as the tenno’s nerves fiddle with the lato.

Neither of them notices the cloak flicker out beneath them.

‘Going to wait until we’re in the open, snatch and grab? The weapons look light but,’ the teenager eases them forth, a nervous dictation the warframe accepts. Can’t be too far behind, nor too close.

‘Potentially,’ T’viska sighs, taking control of his left arm as his right remains in the tenno’s connection. ‘Too much trouble if we tried to take them out, only got so many bullets.” His hand pats against the satchel of lato magazines and where the interrogation device sits in a pouch. ‘Shouldn’t take too long…’

‘Yeah,’ Warren exhales, his digit control wavering above the trigger – the safety off.

‘Though, if we cloak, we could take them all out, right?’

‘Jacob, we can’t. The shells robust enough to pierce through their shields.’

Beneath, Warren flinches, ‘I… just don’t like hearing the screaming. Or being shot.’

T’viska’s breathing huffs, barely exhaling heat into the chill. ‘I know. But if we stay cloaked, it’ll give us time to make some distance.’

A settled nod, the trembling of a nervous index finger.

They step forth, a direction made by both warfarme and tenno, and stare back at a crewman holding a sampling device – one of the group further up the cavern.

“Jat-jatttasey!” They shout, dropping the device, palming against their side in the instance – searching for a weapon cut short as the lato fires once. Twice. Piercing their suit to the Triton atmosphere of ammonia and methane, echoing through the chamber.

Warren’s nerves… tremble, rattled as his grip on the lato fumbles and gears towards the clamoring further up the path, where the moas and orsperys sing in technical clicks and whirls. Jatttasey. Jatttasey! Grows loud, thundering as the tenno’s concentration slips – ensnared as the loki recovers them from the bout and surges back into their cloak. Before them, as the loki curses and rights himself into action, Warren can hear the corpus wheeze, gasping in gargles and curses as their hand holds against the bullet holes, straining against the caustic environment where they’re left behind.

‘I’m-‘ Warren strains, retreating back to himself amongst the somatic cradle, ‘I’m sorry I-‘ trembles, aching in his throat. Outside him, against his skin blazes the traces of laser fire.

T’viska leaps into action, maneuvering himself to press back against the other side of the cavern as he tucks the firearm away. ‘Hold on, Warren,’ he snaps. His golden claws scratch against the walls as he scampers out of the path of a moa, his feet ricocheting him past the approach of the other crewmen – three running out into the Triton landscape. One of them, the target.

As his paws dig against the cryodust, his facial structure stings. Tearing.

The warframe brushes it aside as he dashes closer to the one marked as their target, wrestling them down to the ground in a billow of dust. Knocking them down is difficult – the loki curses, kicking their legs out from under them – striking one guard in the stomach to knock them away. A simple need for space, the warframe shutters, claws grappling around the target’s gut, yanking them into the cloak. The screams persist, the stammering of commands as the delegate struggles. Kicking and punching, straining against the warframe that holds them captive before he leaps.

It’s only once they become silenced, choked out against T’viska’s arms, is the assignment marked as a success. Gasping for breath, stinging with every inhale, he holds the interrogation device above the delegate where they lay on Orokin rubble.

With it activated, fizzling them into mere data, does the warframe sit down.

Silent. Gasping.

T’viska holds his side, black oozing through his fingers warm.

“Kid,” he shakes, holding the wound, “talk to me.”

On the other end of the coms-link, the teenager’s voice shakes. Inhales shattered by anxious trembling, the nipping in stomach and chest. A sensation of a mouth straining to find words, and failing, biting at skin as the warframe stares off into the distance of triton – where Orokin rumble decorates. “Come on, kid,” he exhales, “it’s not your fault. I should’ve noticed the cloak went down…”

While he waits, he attunes his arms to the tenno for a moment – it’s where sensory connections fumbles, a thumb – golden claw – pressing against his wrist. Scratching, itching of metal-strengthen digits against the soft beneath fabric bandages. It presses as he waits out the interrogation device as it begins to settle back into his palm, returning to its original form and ready to deliver the retrieved information.

He tucks it back into the satchel, secured; the objective completed.

“Not bad for your first outing after a couple hundred years… could’ve gone worse,” a dry laugh…

T’viska can feel the bite of the blade, scratching in his wrist beneath the bandaging.

On his own arm, he finds no marking of a device.

“Suuir, is he in the chair,” T’viska’s features scrunch, worried.

‘No, he is not,’ the cephalon states.

The loki’s shoulders droop as he holds his arm, where the beading of pain drips slowly over his skin in a mimic of nerves. Overlooking the Triton expanse as he holds the cutting of skin, the dripping of illing blood within the realms of the orbiter. “I should’ve noticed the cloak was down…” he whispers. Flinching as the pain moves from wrist to thigh, maw scrunching dismayed and shattered.

“Suuir,” he whispers, “I got the device… lets drop it off and go to Mars.” He holds against the pain, sat in the Triton dust.

‘For Warren?’ the cephalon questions.

The loki nods. “I shouldn’t have brought him on his first mission like this,” he frowns – scrunched as the bite of a blade draws again. “Idiot T’viska… it’s his first mission. His first mission and you screwed it up...”


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -+- Kudos, sharing, and comments are encouraged! -+-
> 
> Tags will be updated over time.

Claws affix themselves around the railing, ones that pull the warframe up the ramp as he tries to force his steps slow as he enters the silence of the orbiter. Without the interrogation device as a main priority, he heads to the arsenal bench where he drops the lato; a clattering of hard material as he deposits his belt band on top of the station. As it finds itself settled he stands on his toes, checking the bin where he left the spira blades earlier and hopefully out of the teenager’s reach.

With a soft clatter – blades resounding off of blades – he begins to pick through them, counting them to be certain none have been displaced last he can recall.

They’re all there.

With a sigh, the loki shoves the bin of throwing blades back above his sight line, about two meters from the floor from where he stands. Too far laterally for the teenager to reach for himself, too precarious to pull down, retrieve one, and put it back into place. It fumbles in his golden grip, shoved back against the backwall of the shelving unit. His lip curls.

He’ll figure it out eventually.

T’viska settles himself back onto his feet, crossing over to the foundry and picking out one of the many rags from a stack that have begun to cumulate over the last couple days. A scrap of a former shirt drips with water as he pulls it from the small dish sat on top the foundry console, smearing it against the stains of the wound in his side. Less of a wound – more of a stain; another clears the remnants of the ink-stain fluid.

Leaning onto the foundry unit with a sigh, T’viska turns himself towards the ceiling, “Suuir, where’s Warren,” he whispers. There’re not very many places the tenno could’ve gone – he’s aware – but knowing where he is will make his approach less aggressive – apologetic. In his sightline the cephalon reveals the teenager’s location – in the same corner of the residential chamber. Huddling again.

‘Been there since the incident,’ the cephalon briefs, flickering out once again from his vision.

Once he clears himself of the stain, T’viska abandons the fabric on the surface of the foundry station.

T’viska’s steps remain calm as he moves to the back of the orbiter’s quarters, thoughts muddied and fumbled as to how to apologize for his own failings – the things he failed to do like not realizing the cloak was down, that it was irresponsible of him to bring the mentally damaged teenagers into the front lines on his first mission. A mire of his own insecurities hitch – clamoring inside his thoughts as he nears the door into the residential quarters; his lack of tact on the frontline after the initial conversation, the snarl he let out to the frightened teenager… the bite of self-harm with a spira blade. Was it a spira blade, certainly he stored them all away?

The door slips open, brimming him into the silence of the dark room and the playback glow.

Across what would’ve been the out-bound observation scene echoes a lush scenery, bathing the residential quarters in beams of yellows and blues – a stark contrast as it dances across the interior, wandering in its silence. Within the very same glow his steps softly pad against the floor, head craned over to where the cushioned bench is position, in the direction it ends and creates an open notch between it and the wall. The warframe swallows his hesitation. “Jacob…?”

In the corner he can see the shape of the tenno bundled beneath the blanket, turned away and quietly staring, hooded by the simple two-tone black and tan patterning as the kavats lie curled at his sides. One nestles against his left side, paws lying up over his lap and outstretched, her head sitting lull within the teenager’s palms. Crenshaw’s purrs are soft, buried beneath the muffled tranquility given off by the mocking view.

T’viska looks between them, his sight narrowing with an exhale.

He walks over to where the tenno sits on the floor, finding a place for himself on the bench cushion and above where grumpy Rhurbarb’s tail flickers, ears pointing back in lazy acknowledgement. “Jacob…. Warren,” the loki corrects himself, leaning against his knees – hands wringing together as he looks to the display across the way.

No response comes from Warren, but his hands do press against the kavat’s sleeping jaw – sought for reassurance.

Silence; awkward in a silent debate.

Where’s he to start? – Warren nips his lip, his sight twisting down to where the kavat’s head sits nestled in his palms – petting over the brief flicker of an ear. The slightest of a squeeze stains against his mind, still carving around the self-deprecation; the self-hatred as his wrist and thigh still stings with the bite of a blade. Hoping the warframe remains unaware – he’s just barely keeping himself stable – the stains of tears ebbing against his cheeks.

It’s T’viska that starts, preluded by a deep exhale. “What happened today… Warren, that wasn’t your fault. I should’ve noticed the cloak went down.” Golden claws click and fumble between his knees, the warframe’s crown turned down and looking away. “I took you out on a mission without any precautions – you aren’t suited to go out yet. I should’ve waited a bit longer before bringing you out on the field.”

A dismissal, a disarm. The teenager’s fists grasp against the kavat’s fur, moving from skull to neck and further – a brevity of comfort as the kavat huffs. Of course, it wasn’t his fault – it just couldn’t be when he was needed the most, when he was set to prove he was capable still.

Not to T’viska, or to Suuir.

He was useless; broken.

Warren bites his lip, head cast down and away.

“It’s…” T’viska sighs, hands grasping against his wrapped forearms – and Warren glances over for a brief moment – he’s only caused the loki harm. “It’s complicated out there, kid. Everyone’s fighting for scraps. What I do… it’s not good work, but it’s the only thing that pays enough. I just don’t ask questions anymore…”

The teenager shuffles, yielding the kavat close as his hands hold over his forearms – fingers tracing against the blemishes that mark the faint scars in his wrist. Almost healed, and he won’t have to worry about keeping it hidden. He’s done enough harm to the loki; blue eyes downcasted.

Staring into the evergreen grove situated on the wide screen, the warframe eases himself against his knees, hands falling limp with a sigh. Needless. “I wish there was any other way but… this line of work is all I got. And I rather you not get involved but… that’s too much to ask, isn’t it…?”

“Mhm…” mumbles dejected. Warren just wants to be useful… for something.

Another splint of silence pervades; where the clicking of metal claws tick amongst the serenity imbued before them, as the sleeping creatures hold Warren captive with their warmth and company.

Tense – T’viska swallows reactive.

As the screen before them continues its lull of artificial nature – of a location far out of their reach and falsehood of security. But they at least have this to break up the pain – a thought that crosses as the loki leans back with his arms crossed, head lulling back against the platform behind the cushioned bench.

Within himself he can feel the teenager’s anguish, the dredging of self-doubt that carves through one torso and into another – prying at heart strings while the sting of self-harm still aches. Beneath Warren’s fingers they pulsate, radiate in the diversion of self-anxiety as they slowly ebb to heal across his skin. It’s harder to place the pain dug into his thigh. “I’ve asked Suuir to divert our course for a bit… there’s an open space on Mars that’s barren of settlements,” the warframe sighs. At his side, the teenager peaks up beneath his hood. “I figured… after what happened earlier, it’d be best to get you some field practice out and about – not in the middle of a hot zone.” His maw faints a smile – melancholy as he still stares forward here foliage sits in blooms.

Warren diverts his gaze back to the taupe fur nestling between his fingers, where Crenhaw huffs beneath his hand as he cups her jaw. Prying in uncertainty. What if he fucks up again; his brows scrunch.

“We’ll head out whenever you’re ready, Warren,” the loki breathes before he stands, glancing over to where the tenno remains seated crowded by Crenshaw and Rhubarb.

He does catch a glimpse at the damage – but is relieved to see how far it’s healed.

Not too deep… and doesn’t mention it before he leaves.

As the door to the residential quarters’ eases shut, separating Warren in totality from the rest of the ship as his focus shifts back to the scene before him. The warmth against his side and on his lap. The wrapping of the blanket around him to keep him entombed, separated from the room and muffled. After a moment, a brief stint of time, he holds his once slashed wrist before him – thumb tracing along the blemishing rise were his oozed over his skin. It presses soft at first, easing downwards as he squeezes against it – and releases as his knuckles press against his mouth, the exposed teeth of his left side.

 

 

He’s unable to feel the Martian chill as the warframe steps out of the liset – barred by the transference circumstances as Warren sits lull in the somatic cradle. Sat nestled in the back of the warframe’s thoughts, he observes as his father carries out makeshift targets – remnants of shirts and pipe metal scraps he sets into the tussle of rock and sand. They sit far from the liset as T’viska pries through the containers lining the inside of the vessel. Items riddled with bullet holes once sat in the storage area of the orbiter are moved out into the open, pivoted outside of the liset’s rear hatch.

The set up for such an occasion drags out, conversation minimum as the loki strikes the ground with the steel bars, digging into the soil until they’re able to keep steady. Ten targets in total, heaving to the side as a gust billows past them.

T’viska, sat on the ramp, fiddles with the lato and a magazine; reaching out to the teenager whom has kept himself quiet all this time. “They’re all set up for you, kid,” the warframe exhales, looking out to the targets as he eases himself from personal control – giving space for the tenno to take over his nervous system. “Take it slow, Warren,” he heeds as the teenager affirms control of the warframe’s body, rising up to the loki’s full height.

And the teen remains quiet as he walks towards a mark in the dust – made between stuffed containers.

“Start by standing behind that line,” the warframe notes, observing as Warren pilots his body to the point – paws splaying in the cold dust as golden claws hold onto the pistol, finger positions shifting as the loki makes manual adjustments for Warren. “Keep your finger off the trigger when you’re holding it,” he suggests – and lets the tenno correct himself. “We’ll just go through the basics, alright kid?”

T’viska’s head – Warren’s – nods.

“Good, now then,” T’viska exhales, directing his internal IFF diagnostics manually – separate from Suuir’s systems. “We’ll go from nearest target, to farthest. Try and aim for the upper chest region – most often it’s shoot first or be killed.” His voice softens as he drifts out of organic control of his body, watching as Warren shuffles himself, glancing amongst the marked targets – 10 meters, 25, 30, 32, 40 – and such, a distance calculated by the warframe’s innate instincts melded with circuitry.

Within the cradle Warren nips his lip, and fires twice into a short formerly splattered with the loki’s dark blood. There’s almost a visual snap as he moves onto the next target – further out – almost as acutely accurate as the lato rings out into the empty valley. And again, he moves onto the next one, finger snapping against trigger, bullet punching through the fabric and shredding it with a dusting sear. At the next, he fires repetitive, and to the next – the lato clicks empty.

At first T’viska guides Warren’s hand down to the satchel held against his side, plucking through the reserved ammunition as the empty magazine cartridge billows in the dust at the loki’s scarred feet. A moment to meld the motions into the quick firing succession – as Warren aims down the sight towards the furthest cloth dummy. Bullets pierce through the fabric in ringing shots and into exhaustion; and the teenager snaps in a new magazine as he moves forth, over the line in the martian dust as he moves them forth.

Chestnut and ivory paws sprint across the scants of rubble, scampering around the outer edge where the liset sits null and launches up onto the ruins of a half-buried turbine. Farther from the targets, trickier shots, one hand securing them in place as neither of them speak – a silence that pervades through into their motions as the tenno fires at the make-shift marks.

And again, the lato clicks empty, and is satisfied with more ammunition.

Until Warren finally runs himself ragged.

Tears sting against his sight as he collapses on the metal ruins, where he allows his father to regain personal control of his muscles, of his nerves to clean up the mess of bullets and abandoned magazines. Sat as an observer, the teenager only watches as each spent shell is plucked by golden claws, cloth scraps caught from the wind-blown ravaging brought upon by the aggressive shots. One by one, each individual piece of the loose training is picked up, and deposited into a bin within the liset.

But the loki makes no indication that they’re leaving.

With a sigh, the warframe eases himself down to sit at the edge of the nearby mechanical ruins, legs hanging loose over the edge. Chest resting on crossed arms, leaned down against weary knees, T’viska looks off into the distance, solemn. “Warren, what’s on your mind.”

A first audible sniff, a hand rubbing against an itching nose. “Nothing,” he fumbles – tension staining inside his chest, eyes clenched shut. “It’s nothing…”

“Warren.”

“Don’t!” Half chokes, caught in a sob, “just… don’t.”

Golden claws curl, one balling against his opposing knee. “Warren…” T’viska hesitates, “It’s okay, kid.”

He can hear the hiccups, the trembles of rage breaking through the sympathetic link – a forced self-containment – of residual trauma fragmenting and aggressive.

“If I don’t know what’s wrong… I can’t help,” the loki briefs, caught in the transfer of sensations, seizing in his throat and forcing him to swallow. “You did nothing wrong, Jacob,” he finds it hard to speak, vocal cords seized in trembles – “I’m the one that screwed up.”

Thoughts fragment; breaking; searing as fluid stains against exposed teeth and gums nearly healed from punishment damage. A palm holds against it, fingers digging, screwing his eyes shut against the aching tears. A shatter – fingers dig into his hair, straining – regressing; he’ll only get hit again.

“Warren –“

“DON”T!” the teenager snarls, overriding the warframe’s neural control; nerves and muscles forced still – captivated by the transference surge. “I’m a fucking fuck up, okay?! There was only one thing I was good at – and I can’t fucking do it right anymore! The only thing – the Orokin – the only thing I was useful for was following what ever forsaken objective I was given – there was no question of morals, and that was the only thing I was able to do well! And now – and now I just fuck it up, I fucked up, screwed up the mission. That person – screaming – I can still hear them! We were face to face and I just shot them!

“All I’m good for is on stand-by, just like before, and I’m able to do nothing – a fucking distraction – I’m fucking useless. I might as well be thrown away for scraps – that’s all I’m useful for! I’m fucking BROKEN, dad, USELESS, do you understand that?! I was the defacto to just fucking toss at suicide missions, or just to outlast the fucking pain because I could just ‘deal with it’ and ‘walk it off’ and lie in some fucking room.” Warren chokes, hands palming against his face, against the flow of tears and broken sobs. “But I fucking can’t – I fucking can’t do that anymore! Because I’m so fucked up… I can’t do anything anymore…”

The stress against the loki’s throat drifts, held back in a vice as he finds himself able to speak once more. “We’re both fucked up, Warren, “ T’viska bites back, carrying a brief wrestle of his self-control. “But you did nothing WRONG. Understand that – what the Orokin did to you, forced upon you, is not your fault.”

“I know that!” croaks, tear struck and anguished as the teenager trembles. “But this… this fucking scar on my face – this damage wont just fucking go away, reminds me every time, every time and I’m tired of dealing with it!” He rustles amongst the cradle, vicious, trying to force his way out for a moment before seizing himself again. “I –“ he chokes, harsh, “I can’t fucking do anything, dad… I’m too fucking scared of fucking it all up… I don’t want to get hurt anymore… is that too much to ask…?”

Amongst the outburst only lies the martian winds, billowing past in a flurry, a gust of harsh blown sand that itches against the warframe’s skin, against the numerous scars laden by injuries once severe. And silent – a comforting embrace melded within the somatic connection. It doesn’t replace the need Warren strains – to be held as he’s situated still in the cradle, lingering beyond the planet’s surface as the loki exhales. “No, Warren… that, it’s not too much to ask for. I just wish I knew the answers.”

He can feel the shuffling – of knees drawn against chest and held tight. The sniffling.

“Sometimes –“ the loki pauses, mouth drawn narrow, “it takes time to get everything figured out, kid. And honestly… I don’t like it either, leaving up there all by your self – only with your thoughts to distract you.” He heaves himself to stand, steps eager to return to the liset. “I’m heading up… feels like this is something best discussed in person.”

Within the cradle Warren bites his lip, straining against the knotting in his chest. An uncertainty that hammers through the transference link and ensnaring the warframe to stop. “I – I heard that there’s others like me out there… tenno or whats-it… on broadcast frequencies. That they could just… simply appear out of nowhere, like ghosts,” he hiccups.

“Do you want to try that?” T’viska eases himself in control of his motions once more, pausing at the edge of a scrap metal ridge, his head in a minor tilt. “Of course,” his mouth faintly smiles. Beneath his steps the ragged remains of a cargo ship creaks, carrying them back down to where the chill of desert sands meets their steps.

Red dust wisps follow the loki’s movement as a billowing gust swarms around them, a bare nuisance as amongst the sympathetic connection energy begins to sing. It stems through nerve endings in flicker of a surge from the cradle as Warren’s teeth grit; grinding, aggressive yet exhausted as the warframe stands beneath the security of the liset’s under carriage. Nips and needle-pin prickles dance along forearm nerve endings, a bittering sensation that makes the warframe wince, hissing in pain.

It’s a flaring that ceases in an instant – where Warren swallows down the lump in his throat, eyes aching with the sting of old tears. Another thing he can’t do right. He curls his arms around his knees, drawing them against his chest as he eases to only observe – to watch as the warframe settles himself down on the floor connecting to the ramp.

T’viska swallows down the trembling shivers that wrack his body, golden claws affixing themselves against his sides and compressed beneath his arms – still ebbing with the tearing sensation from the lashing of somatic energy. Pricklets of the transference uncertainty stings the back of his throat, inside his head as he listens to Warren’s voice trembles. “I’m alright, kid,” he faintly smiles, stark against the claws clutching against his skin; against the rattle of blooming nerve ending twitches. “We can work on it once I get back,” he clarifies, “maybe tomorrow, I can bring you down here. Get yourself some exercise, maybe have some hands-on with a firearm.”

Would it be a bad idea? T’viska shakes it from his consciousness; he needs to engage Warren in something. Anything to get him out of the orbiter, get him out of his head.

On the other end of the somatic link, he can hear the teenager shifts, palms wiping away the tint of tears, posture relaxed. “Okay,” he grunts, stifled, “I’m… I’m fine with that, dad.” An expression tinted with a broken smile, tear stricken and exhausted.

“Go ahead and get some sleep, Warren,” the warframe sighs, staring out into the billows of red sands beyond the liset’s ramp. “I’ll be in orbit soon,” golden claws hold against his head, leaning into it as a headache pounds. Through the somatic connection, he can’t hear the teenager speak as he feels the motions as though they’re his own. He waits out the echoes of movements, holding his bandaged forearms as his sight stares beyond the horizon – golden claws squeezing, anxious hope.

Never does he feel the sting of a blade.

 

 

The next evening, T’viska and Warren mark a clear perimeter with strips of scrap fabric, ones that flutter upon their metal pole mountings sat embedded into the rock and sands. Starks of white flutter in the occasional martian gust, decorating the region around them to mark small targets as their conversations ebb – on the things Warren’s heard through radio chatter, captured transmissions and the murmurs of idle banter between relay posts. It takes priority over their conversation; on the wonderous possible things that others seem to have as the teenager’s hands secure themselves around the lato’s grip, aiming down the sights to a target down the way.

One of many he aims at… hours spent.

The puffs sand out behind the small, fabric wrapped metal. A miss.

“Dad,” Warren sighs, taking up the sight again. “What do you think… of me being able to do such things,” he mumbles, adjusting his grip before he fires. Another whiff of dust.

Watching from the sidelines, T’viska exhales through the vents along the side of his chest – echoed by a puff of steam into temperate chill. “Well, I don’t doubt it,” he breathes, “everyone’s got their own abilities, you might just not have what the others do. That’s all.”

“Like what?” the lato clicks empty.

“Your strength, for one thing,” T’viska watches as the teenager switches out the magazine, sight turned to the bare knuckles faintly bruised. Worry. “On the moon – you were able to crack the shell of the thing that they kept you in – my claws barely marred it.”

Warren’s expression remains static, focus still on the target in the distance. “I just… punch things whenever I’m angry, whatever is nearby…” he sighs, arms dropping a slight as his eyes stare into the distance – brows furl. “Only thing I was good for was enduring pain…” he flinches, “always just an asset… a means to the end. And I hated it,” his teeth grit, holding the pistol out before him, aim true. “I’ve got nothing…”

“Nonsense,” the loki’s lip twitches, watching as the bullet strikes the scrap metal. “You’re just as capable, Warren. It might just be that you don’t know how to utilize them. That’s all.”

“But what if you’re wrong…?”

T’viska looks away, off into the distance.

Another shot rings out.

“You never know until you try, kid.”

And another.

The teenager’s sight remains contorted, gazing to and past the target struck twice. He’s caught in thought, a hand brushing his face. “So many of the reports… talk about offensive abilities but –“ Warren wavers, mouth pressed flat.

He hands the lato back to T’viska as golden claws hold around his shoulders. Palms held up, he stares at them – brows scrunched. Holding them out, Warren tries to focus on both, then only on one – but he flinches, pulling it back against his chest, rubbing his inner wrist as he buries himself against the loki’s chest.

Reassurance pats at his spine, careful as he takes the teenager’s palms into his own. “I don’t know how any of this works, Warren,” he briefs, tilting the tenno’s right palm upwards; but Warren forces it back down again. It scrunches the warframe’s face. “But just because one thing doesn’t work out now, doesn’t mean other things won’t work out later.”

“I know,” Warren mumbles beneath his breath, pulling himself away from the loki’s attempting comfort to hide the scarring on his wrist – his other hand holds it. “But it’s just… exhausting, you know? Not to amount up to anything… after the shit I went through. The Orokin fucking putting me to use as some sort of puppet master in their war. A war I never wanted to be a part of…”

T’viska remains still, watching.

Warren looks down upon his palms as his concentration fluxes, mouth in a snarl. “The same results… over and over again,” he turns, expression bitter, “stowed away until I was able to stand again… until I couldn’t anymore.” Apathy paints his features – brilliant blue eyes half lid, red dust catching in his auburn hair as his dark coat flutters in the blown martian sands. It’s the remnants of the cargo ship that directs his attention – sandblasted and worn. “Every time I fought back… every time I struggled, it only got worse.”

Making the connection between the teenager’s glance and the wreckage, T’viska shifts. “It’s worth a try, Warren. To see what you can do.”

It takes a look back to the warframe before Warren understands the words, the intent behind him as his adopted father looks back to the scrap from the downed vessel. The surface sandblasted slate white, smooth enough to glint in the sun’s minor gaze. What part of the teenager’s face that still has lips press, brows squeezed – and wanders over to it.

And he gives it one, hard, strike.

Cyan energy splinters between the impact and Warren’s fist, a flicker and glow as he pulls back, shaking his hand in the slight sting. The metal, dented.

“Do it again,” T’viska wanders, crossing the distance between the liset and the wreckage.

Another strike, another burst of void energy sparkles between them.

In that instance Warren looks upon his knuckles, once bruised by earlier aggression they ring with the glow of transparent armor in bright cyan. A mimicry that flutters around his hand – flexing and relaxing as he draws his fingers back into a fist.

And his eyes light up, mouthing a broken smile.

“Of course… it takes whatever pain and gives it strength,” he chatters in bemusement, drawing both hands before him, bouncing the transparent visage of armored knuckles. One, two, he strikes the metal. Indented with two more fist-shaped indentations – his palms glow in tune with the energy pulsations, strumming through the sympathetic connection in prickles that make the loki’s own ache.

But the smile on the teenager’s face is worth it. “I told you, didn’t I?” the loki smiles back, “you never know until you try.”

“It hurts,” Warren shakes, tears tinting his sight, “but I can take it. I’m just… glad I got something of worth.” As the loki holds his arms open, the teenager moves the other way, his shape shuttering across the landscape as his form ebbs with void energy – just enough to fold through a few centimeters.

But it’s enough.

Warren stumbles himself back into T’viska’s arms, yanking the warframe into a tight hug, arms like a vice under the void pulsations from his palms. His face buries against the overshirt protecting the loki’s scars from the harsh sand, auburn furls dusting in martian dust. “Thank you, dad… for believing in me.”

Gold claws wrap back, pulling against the coat the teenager’s wearing to yield him into a tighter hug as he rests his head on Warren’s. “That’s why I’m here for you, Warren,” he whispers, easing them into a gentling sway. A moment of comfort, reassurance of ability that exhales around them as the winds pick up, throwing the white flag markers to flutter and snap. A billowing they endure as the teenager sobs, messing his face against the warframe’s chest while his fists ball against T’viska’s back.

“Thank you…. so much, dad,” he mumbles.

T’viska dares to not pull back from the embrace as Warren cries; stroking his back, messing his hair with the gentle utterance of soothing hushes. Reassurance that it’s okay, whispered down as the teenager relents to the overflowing emotional outcry – he has something! He’s not useless! A tumble of relief that holds the loki in a vice.

For a time, they remain there as beneath it T’viska scours through the call for mercenaries, for a job more slow-paced, suited to give the teenager space and find use. “Let’s head home, kid,” he sighs down, pulling the teenager close. “It’s been a while… should start getting back.” Across his vision the cephalon blips, he’s found a criteria match. “Tomorrow, I’ll take you out on the field… something slow paced. How does that sound?”

Warren sniffs, “S-sure,” hiccups. A hand held with golden claws pats at his back.

“It’s a sabotage,” the loki briefs, easing space between them. “An easy get in, get out type. You won’t have to worry about a thing,” T’viska smiles as he pulls himself free from the anxious teen, motioning back towards the liset – and Warren follows close behind.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -+- Kudos, sharing, and comments are encouraged! -+-
> 
> Tags will be updated over time.

Golden claws snare around the wrist of a Corpus engineer as the cloak dissipates from his flesh. A blade held between the snarl of canines glints in the low light as the loki tosses the shorter stature aside, a gasp squawks through their speaker as they fall against the rot of disease riddled arboriforms. He barely has a moment to look up, features sitting closed behind the bulky helmet - fear contorting his weary brwo as he watches the loki storm over towards him. Hands scramble to find the short blade tucked into the side of his suit, heart pounding throughout his chest and head - and grunts as a dagger pierces his survival suit.

It’s cruel, jagged as he tries to punch the scarred warframe in the stomach, kicking with a scream into the radio. “Jattasey! Jatta--!!” Another carves through his oxygen supply and pierces his lung. Another carves deeper and into his heart.

Hands clutch around the carving as he stares up, whimpering.

A grimace has carved across the loki’s face, claws balling around the handle of the dual daggers as they drip saturated with corpus blood.

An exhale shudders through the warframe as he watches the helpless engineer finally perspire, slumped and messed with blood and viscous infested goo. Forcing himself to turn away from his first kill of the assignment, he peers over to the machine the Corpus was monitoring – a regional gate. He tucks his ceramic daggers away.

Haphazard tech half sits against the Orokin console – wires sprouting out of every drilled space with the recognizable finesses of brute force. T’viska would only be so lucky that they were manning the failsafe alone, tapping the holographic surface with precision to initiate the locking protocol – he only has a minute as the gilded mechanics grind behind the walls, squealing against the overgrowth as he bolts.

‘Warren, gate’s closing. Once I take care of them you’ll need to unlock it for me,’ he calls over the transference link – passing by where the teenager had sat himself between the cracks in the walls.

Warren watches as his father disappears through the next doorway, sprinting off to beat the ship’s bulkhead. Tired blue somatics drift close as gloves huddle his knees beneath his chin, releasing a sigh as he waits for the painful blooms of transference; or for the minor scrapes that come with each assignment the loki undertakes.

He can feel the slight spring in his ankle after a sudden jolt, debris scratching against his face before finally pulled away. The teenager buries his face into his clothing, wiggling himself further into the cleft in the Orokin architecture. Against his ribs his breathing hitches, a sudden exhale as an object collides with it – the spark of impact. Motions he’s become more than used to; sitting it out at the sidelines.

Riding out the damage being done to the loki several rooms down.

Sight half-lid he watches the gentle waver of the infested arboriforms at his side, the gentle crackle of the once slender core writhing in slow methodical agony. Focusing upon it as he flinches off the bruises, the abrasions given through the somatic link, the brief traces of pinpoint lasers that graze over his spine.

Warren sighs, brushing it off as he watches the nervous foliage dance in the spore laden air, watching the wounded and green-grey matter barely pulsate energy. Behind him he can hear it creak, straining behind the rubble and through the spires that crawl into the open air. Almost as though it was gasping for air – and a palm clutches against Warren’s chest, glove twisting into his coat as his features twist.

‘Sorry,’ the warframe apologizes through the connection, muffled at Warren’s side as he sits there patiently. ‘research team is almost taken out, shouldn’t take much longer.’ The warframe huffs, taking another glance across his brow that’s transferred across Warren’s forehead.

His exposed teeth grit, and his mouth presses flat as his somatic sight falls open once more. “Okay,” he whispers back, the signal transponder sat on his wrist that curls into his hair.

Leaving him alone in silence again… everything’s so dead quiet.

Peaking between the auburn tussle that is his hair, Warren returns his focus back to the infested arboriforms that sit around him. Concentration unfocused, he pulls himself back together, boots shuffling against the dusty debris as he watches the foliage; each twitch in the stale gusts around him, the barest of blooms on the green-grey trunk. A minor effect of internal pulsations – a hand reaching out and held against them.

He doesn’t hear the whirling of a curious Moa; nor does he hear the steps as it approaches with it’s head cocked – plasma barrel scoped.

Warren flinches as another shot grazes the loki’s arm, rubbing the mild sensory burn with a hiss.

In his peripherals, he spots the moa’s foot, and glances up to the mechanical whirl that greets him. Emotionless pin-point optics staring down into startled somatics.

Bright eyes watch as the digitigrade proxy rounds from his left to his right, steps easily maneuvering around the rotten arboriform waste and the trawls of infested matter. Ever so careful it begins approaching him, cornering him further into the crevasse in the wall, where his fingers ball against the ground, stumbling himself backwards against the inner remnants. Clicks and whirls roll through the corpus machine as it ducks, scooting its steps to the side as it investigates the teen’s presence so far from any noted colony – confused.

Warren’s fists briefly swirl with void energy as he trembles; straining to force himself sensible as the small head sways in an observation pendulum – and sticks its small head into the cramped space.

Cyan energy lashes out, and the moa squeals as it stumbles, kicking out against the tenno and swatting at the arboriform bark as it tries to stabilize its steps, processes utterly confused as a crevice marks where it’s cortex once sat before it crumples to the ground.

His right arm ebbs with energy as his breathing stutters.

‘Warren, what was that,’ he can hear over the transponder.

He pulls his arm back firmly against his body, shaking as he stares at the decapitated moa – and kneels himself out to see if it is completely dead. “I-I’m fine, dad,” Warren swallows, flinching as he feels a jolt graze the warframe on the other end of the somatic link. “Just… focus on your assignment,” he resigns himself alone again, shuffling himself onto his feet.

The teenager can hear the loki sigh through the comslink, and pries the device from resting around his neck, disconnecting the cable from the remote transponder. Too restrictive, he fumes, scratching at his nape.

It’ll probably be a while until T’viska fully clears up the research team on the other-side of the void gate anyway. Warren sighs. At his side, the transponder speaks. ‘Gate’s almost open, kid. It might be an in-out or may take a while. I’ll ping when I’m back through,’ the loki’s voice chimes with false bravado – Warren can feel the wounding that’s only just began to heal; it’ll be the latter. His features twisted. ‘Take care, son, I’ll be back as soon as I can.’

And then… nothing. He can’t feel the splash of void energy through the somatic link as T’viska wades through the void gate, their signals interrupted.

Gloves pry against his jacket as he looks to the ceiling, mouth twisting into a partial snarl.

It would’ve just been better if he waited on the ship.

His somatic sights follow the ebbs and creaks of the vessel’s arboriforms. The fractured architecture, the strands that twist through the spore-laden air and trunks that lie slumped from where they were once tethered within the wall. Releasing a sigh, his eyes drift closed once more with a moment’s pause, a hesitation as his features cross and bites what remains of his lip.

Just awaiting his father’s return…

Warren forces himself to move in the direction T’viska had sprinted from, following the blood splatter and ignoring the forms left in the loki’s wake. His attention remains cast to the arboriform rot that laces from room to room, the green-grey shapes that ache with a diminished white glow. Gloves trace against the infested material, over the nodes bleeding blue-green hues. It sinks into his thoughts as two hold against the material, sight glancing over the diseased surface that holds cold within his palms.

“What are you…” he whispers beneath his breath, releasing it, stepping over the corpus corpse as he wanders to another hanging dredge. A coil of white struggles amongst the cluster, a fresh grown that slouches from the diseased material. And, of course, he cups it in his hands, staring, mouth fumbling and biting his lip beneath the scarf.

He palms against his side before he finds the item he sought; a broken shard of spira blade wounded with a fabric grip. Only half the size T’viska has stored away before he found the fragment – probably forgotten about since he had cleaned it so many times at this point… his wrist aches at the thought.

It pats against his gloved palm as he looks over the worn etching, the Orokin writing that barely shows in the low derelict light. Looking from it, he glances back to the struggling wind of arboriform that peers before him. The blade dances in his hand as he cups the sharp edge between the rot and the fresh bloom. Warren whittling the blade between the two parts, flinching as the strange growth squeaks in each roll of his wrist, his other hand holding the part he hopes to separate away.

It’s well enough to preoccupy his time for the time being, slowly working the material free until only a short strand keeps it connected to the rot.

But, much to Warren’s dismay, it had just gone more and more limp, dropping and dulling as he continued to try working it free.

A hand holds it separate from the derelict’s rotted air.

Beneath the scarf Warren frowns, the spira blade still held against the last piece that connects the two. After a moment, he cuts into it, catching the weary portion in his palm as it drops.

He falls to his knees as he drops the blade at his side, cupping the weary coil in his gloves. It draws him to pause, to stare, biting his lip. Fingers pry against one another, dragging them into a more fulling cupping that shades it from the congesting air, shrouding it with his body as he stares with brows furrowed – concentrated.

A moment…. and he sits back with a sigh. He just can’t will things back to life.

 

 

Blade tucked back into its hideaway pouch inside his coat, Warren waits in the room with the regional lock console. He doesn’t acknowledge the corpse laid across from him, head angled back and tilted towards the ceiling; eyes closed, his hands continue to cradle the dead piece of arboriform that has wrapped itself into a tight coil.

A peace that’s suddenly broken as injuries resurge across his arms; T’viska’s return.

His transponder beeps as he forces himself to stand, forcing the pain aside as one fist holds the arboriform remnant.

‘Warren?’ the loki coughs, forcing himself into stable breaths. ‘You, already got the bulkhead open?’

“Mhm,” the teenager nods, wrapping his pain laden arms against his chest, “there… was a lot of time to.” He struggles to edge across the wall towards the door.

‘I’m sorry kid,’ the warframe sighs, ‘there… was a lot going on. You doing alright? Where are you.’

“I’m… in the console room, with the body,” Warren gasps, fighting back against the bloom of transferred agony. “Was good until now.”

‘Coming to get you,’ the loki imparts, cutting himself short.

 

 

Within the safety of the liset Warren lets his hand fall open, still cradling the dead arboriform coil as he curls himself up into the co-pilot seat. It takes his preoccupation as his boots slip along the edge of chair, finally at once finding their footing as he listens to the warframe click the systems to ignite, directing it back to the orbiter under Suuir’s control.

“What’s you got there, kid?” the loki calls over, letting the autopilot take over as he rubs a dirty rag over the welts of his spilt ichor blood.

“A piece of one of those plant things,” Warren muffles against his scarf… and pauses, pulling it free from his face. The healed scarring of his left jaw exposed. “It was… growing from one of them, I found it when I wandering back to the bulkhead controls.” His mouth draws a flat line as much as it can, glancing down to it from the depths before them – as the liset shakes.

“Oh, those… arboriforms?”

“That’s the name for them?” the teenager glances over, hands reactive in holding the coil close.

“Mhm,” the loki relaxes, “Do they… pique your interest, Warren?”

“They’re…” he pauses, digging back through the trauma of the isolation rooms; staring up at the winding white sat so far above him where he bit back pain. The hours spent screaming at them for why, why him? “They have… something to do with transference, I think. It’s what the pods were connected to… the chair back on the orbiter… I don’t like it.”

The warframe’s maw presses flat, glancing back to the console readouts. “That’s fine,” the loki leans into a smile, adjusting the trajectory. “Asides, I’m sure you might not need it.”

“What do you mean…”

“Those plants, arboriforms, have your interest, right? Maybe while I’m out on assignment you can spend time researching them. It’d be better than letting Suuir tutor you constantly, right?”

“I suppose,” the teen looks down into his palms once more, “better than nothing… I suppose you’re right. But… these things…” his fingers coil around the small coil. “It’s all I could ever think about when they threw me away, hoping that it’d just heal up so they can put me back into another ‘shell’.” He stares into the depth of space, his voice – distant. “Dad… you were on lua… the moon. How many were there.”

Silence sits between them as the tenno slumps back into his chair, letting his feet fall down to the floor as he cradles the coil. T’viska turns his focus to the depths for a moment and flips to a transponder channel for a moment. “The moon’s made of it, Warren… covered.”

“How many like me were there…” Warren bites his lip, sigh obscured by his tussled hair.

“… Too many to count.”

Warren sits quiet, hands cupping the white coil against his chest.

After a moment, with a swallow and a sigh, the warframe forces himself to sit upright. “Maybe I’ll take you there, but for now the entire system is fighting over it. I can’t take you there-“

“I don’t want to.”

“I know – it’s not the only place that has them either – as you saw back on that derelict.” T’viska glances over, Warren’s gloves slightly spreading as he looks to the coil. “Maybe the next time we come across a derelict or something, we’ll find the time so you can look at them more. Figure things out; how does that sound?”

Warren’s features remain turned into a small frown. “That’s fine…”

Golden claws ruffle through his auburn hair. “Maybe there might be hope for that little piece when we get back to the orbiter,” the warframe’s maw smiles. “I’m sure with enough persuasion Suuir would be happy to help to get the information you need.”

Warren remains quiet, eyes downcast.

A pause… and T’viska pulls his hand back. “Warren… son.”

“Mh.”

The loki’s mouth briefly sneers. “I’m not saying that’s all you can do; just when assignments are too dangerous.”

“You mean all of them.”

“Most of them, for now. Give it some time; I’m sure you can do those other vanishing acts cited in those sightings. Whatever makes you happy, do it. Suuir’s got a cog stuck in his processes, but he doesn’t do anything about it unless it affects his routine systems.” T’viska sighs, “I’m going to try and get it so you have more time out of the ship – practice those void powers of yours. You don’t need to be stuffed up with Suuir for so long.” He tries to smile.

The teen scoffs, briefly smiling. “You really think that…?”

“I mean,” the loki halves a chuckle, messing his claws in the teenager’s hair. “You made it this far… you got a strong will to survive all that, kid. I’m sure if you put your mind to it, you can – without that chair.”

Releasing a snort, Warren brushes off the bandaged forearm, cupping the arboriform against his coat.

“By the void, you might even be able to participate with me at some point. You and me, against the system,” T’viska widely smiles. “But, it’d be up to you, kid. It’s all be up to you; tell me what you need, and I’ll see what I can do.”


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -+- Kudos, sharing, and comments are encouraged! -+-
> 
> Back to focusing on this until I reach chapter 20, if it needs that many chapters. As of now I don't know how long it'll be but I have the events lined up already.

Back on the orbiter, Warren holds the arboriform coil against his chest, watching against the mod console as the warframe scrounges through debris left around the foundry. Glass bottles sit in fragmented chunks, scraps of blood-tainted fabric lie unwashed and stacked at the side – in need of systematic processing. Hands cupped across his chest, Warren looks over the bits and pieces left in the wake of the constant assignments, half-heartedly trying to remind himself to clean it up later… whenever that is. Watching the warframe pick through the refuse his thoughts begin to wander – regarding the arboriform, the white foliage. Between his palms he peeks at the coil, would it be possible, he wonders.

“Ah, here we go,” the loki gleans on the other side of the chamber, a small jar in his grip. He tosses away the odd bit of cloth that once sat inside its short shape – once used as a medical soak from the residual grime left inside. Something that’s knocked out into another rag with a grunt, still stuck with dust. “How about this?”

With the coil held against his chest with one hand, the other reaches out for the jar with a quizzical expression. “It’s… disgusting,” the tenno comments, watching the loki reorganize the chaotic foundry back into being somewhat manageable.

“It just needs a good cleanin’,” the warframe grunts as he shoves scrap fabric into the hatch to be reprocessed. “The place in the back, medical wing, has it filtered,” he holds his hand out, and Warren gives him the jar. “Let me show you,” he turns.

Warren follows close behind him, holding the coil still close to his chest as he looks around the damp medical ward overgrown with bioluminescent flora. Beneath their feet, beyond the short landing and stairs, glass and metal ribbing separate the two sections of the chamber. As he watches, T’viska kneels over beside a small section that cuts into the reservoir beneath the chamber, dunking it deep into the pulsating waters. After a moment of watching he eases himself to sit on the short steps, his sight set on what the warframe’s hands are doing in the water reverberating with the engine throbs.

He can see the occasional flinch itch across the loki’s features, feeling the mild burn up to his elbows as the arms sink deep into the coolant pool. White cloth that covers the warframe’s rich purple muscle remains damp, forgotten by T’viska as he rubs out the final pieces of ill grime. “It cleans itself regularly,” he briefs, an attempt to dismiss the material that drifts down to the bottom as he shakes the jar clean. “There we go,” he sighs, wiping it across his leggings and side-hitched skirt.

It takes a moment for Warren to take the jar, his sight adverted to the bandaging that covers the loki’s forearm and the scarring held beneath. Only after he tears his sight away does he take the – now cleaned – jar and cradles it between his knees and body, dropping the coil inside it where it barely plinks and rattles against the glass.

With a grunt the warframe raises himself to his feet, “with that taken care of, how about we see what Suuir knows about them.” It takes a few seconds to process, but Warren eventually pulls himself to his feet as well, holding the jar close as he and T’viska cross over to the residential chamber.

He huddles himself up in a blanket as he sits back on the bench cushion, watching from beneath the drawn hooding as the loki pries through the database at their disposal. Suuir’s tetrahedron vectors bounces from corner to corner of the wide display as gold claws direct through the depths of the cephalon’s subconscious information. Sitting null, he only observes the banter between them; the sterned words that read out before them and the warframe’s own comments.

“It should be in here somewhere,” he grumbles, pawing through the records of far gone assignments where he siphoned out data. In the top corner, where the directory sources from, it notates a different name. “I’m certain I saw something somewhere about them,” the loki bites his lip with a snarl.

On the couch the tenno bites his lip, gloves fumbling against the jar for something to say. “I can look for it later, dad.” Barely audible.

“Hm?” The warframe turns back.

“I-I’ll be fine. I can look it up later,” he peeks up from beneath the hood for a moment, pauses, then covers his face again. All he can hear is the hum of the engines through the ship’s structure and the minor shuffle of cloth as the loki continues for a little while longer – and eventually gives up. To which he lets the resolution go back into the outwards gaze of space.

T’viska settles himself to the side after shoving off Crenshaw, an only momentary removal as she crawls back on top of the cushions and his lap. He breathes a sigh as he undoes the soaked wraps around his forearms. “Suuir’s gonna go through and index what he can in the meantime. It’ll be a while until we’re near Mars – so there’s plenty of time to fill up before we take another trip out.”

The teenager bites his lip; he doesn’t turn. “How many do you have now…?

“Spotted around the route – five to six;” Suuir corrects him across his vision, “seven, some scrap missions.” He sighs.

“Ah,” the tenno mumbles, shuffling himself to sit slightly more comfortably. “They don’t pay well… do they.”

The warframe heaves an exhale, looking out into the depth of space through the glass screen. “No, they don’t…” He tosses the crumpled wrappings behind him as he relaxes into the bench – as much as he can with a kavat on his lap prying for attention. “Next time we swing by a relay, I’ll see if I can scrounge up enough for a datapad.”

Warren remains silent as he pushes the jar up through the blanket he encompassed himself in and holds it snuggly in his blanket covered palms. Somatic eyes fall half-lid over the grey material, mind cobbling over ideas of their nature; where they come from, what they mean, what part they have to be so vastly used and with the somatic system. Leeching off those like him, facilitate the transference and somatic connection? Then by what means does it hurt so much when he’s outside the cradle – chair, his head shakes out the near-suffocating liquid that flourishes into his lungs as he was plunged into other shell.

At his side, he can hear the kavat purring. A sideways glance catches the golden claws messed into the brown and tan fur in an exhausted hold. Looking further he can see the loki’s head resting back against the surface behind them, dozing off as he sat in rumination.

Fingers grip the sides of the jar, brows scrunching as his focus offsets inwards. Through the days spent in isolation; screaming in pain, scooping invisible guts back into place torn by transference static. Dwelling into the miniscule details of each fault in the benching he leaned back against, the hum sunk around him as he was left alone by a single helpless guard.

His head knocks back on the platform connected to the bench, eyes wound shut.

Placing the jar off to the side and beneath the bench, Warren pulls himself down to the floor with the blanket in tow. He wraps himself in it, coiling himself up within the curve in the wall as he tries to hush the anxious thoughts. Finger pick against the fabric as he tries to stop the trembling, the nervous quakes as he bites his lip with eyes clenched shut. Not to think about it. Stop thinking.

Over…

And over.

A body flops against his chest as he tries to undo the thoughts steaming through his consciousness, a shuffle as the kavat tries to get comfortable on the hard floor barely cushioned and the body wrapped in another. It takes a moment to let his eyes fall open, and buries his hands into the animal’s ruff, prying through the fur for a moment… and pulls Crenshaw close, letting the blanket fall loose around him and the kavat.

By the time he wakes up, the loki is gone again.

It takes a moment to pull himself up into a sit, poking around beneath the bench for the jar as he settles himself again beneath the blanket. He holds it coiled around him as he settles it into his lap, half-lid sight glancing around the coil within as a hand pulls the warmth around him. Beyond it, outside the comfort he wraps around himself, lies only the barren cold, the dank emptiness save for old crates and miscellaneous items. Somatic sights glance over the aged vessels etched with corpus and grineer labels; stolen items.

He ignores the biting at his shoulder, the echo of trace rounds.

“Suuir, where’s dad,” he whispers, a hand prying at his side to the transponder.

‘Capture assignment,’ cuts across the screen on the other side of the room.

Taking a short inhale, Warren forces himself to his feet.

Each footfall echoes minor amongst the muted rumble of the orbiter’s engines within the ship, moving from the bench and the haphazard notion of a bed to the wide screen that holds the false external view. First onto his knees, then shuttering himself within the comfort of the blanket, he puts the jar down at his side on the platform before the glass screen. One hand raises, and the internal holographs return to life as the flicker scrapes across his brow. Bright somatic blue roams across the broad interface as the camera view backdrop ceases – the room falling dark.

On the glass, he can see the pulsations as his vision moves across the vast archive deep within the cephalon’s memory banks. Or, as he divulges through the information, the memory of another.

“Suuir, how long have you known dad.”

‘Years,’ is all that etches before him, the tetrahedron flickers away.

“This… was someone else’s, wasn’t it?”

‘Yes,’ the cephalon returns, rudimentary in details. ‘My former vessel was adrift and frozen, he gave me a new one.’

A finger traces across the cold glass, “Suuir… do you know anything, about these things.”

There’s a pause, ‘that wasn’t my specialization.’ And the cephalon is gone again.

Warren looks at the reflection in the glass as his palm swipes across the format, clearing it of the collected clutter. In it, he can see the somatic pulsations within his eyes, the furling auburn traced with dust and twigs, the angry snarl that remains of the left side of his jaw – completely healed.

With a frown, he pulls up a list repository.

For hours he spends his time troving through the databanks of Suuir and the former cephalon, chasing any trace of information as he waits out the lulls in communication. Left alone, it drives his attention away from the bites of pain.

And the arboriform coil begins to rot.

It starts as a minor forgettable blemish on the pure-white features as Warren carries it around, traveling around the orbiter when his legs begin to cramp for sitting idle for so long. As it contorts and unravels it remains at his side, even once T’viska finally manages to snag a datapad before he’s off to another assignment, leaving Warren alone to tinker with the tech and become frustrated. With the jar sat at his side, the datapad tucked between his palms, the blanket thrown up over his shoulders… he falls asleep against the way. Exhausted in monotonous hours of flickering through the database with the cephalon’s life-support strut.

Each time T’viska’s the one to find him passed out from the engine drones. He carries Warren back to the makeshift bed in the residential quarters, noting up to the cephalon to keep an eye out for bedding, blankets, pillows, for something to give the sleeping teen who nestles up against the lazy kavats. As he fetches the datapad again, scrolling through the latest additions in Warren’s documents, he notices the arboriform coil; knotting and spun into near complete grey.

He’s unable to will himself to throw it away – sealing the jar with a band and cloth.

T’viska sets it down at the side of the sparse collection of bedding once more, watching for a moment before pulling another blanket over the sleeping teenager and the cuddling kavats that finally gave up their status. “Suuir, any luck searching through the weave?”

‘Negative,’ the cephalon corresponds, ‘but that remnant… is looking nasty. You need to be rid of it.’

Outside the residential quarters the loki leans against the walls, arms held crossed. “I know, Suuir. And I’m sure he knows it, something like that can’t just be ignored.” Fangs bite across the skin of his maw, eyespots fuming in the cold light. Golden claws dig against the forearm wrappings as he stares at the piping, at the wires held suspended within the ceiling. “How far are we from Mars.”

‘Hundred point eight million kilometers. Point six seven AU.’

T’viska chews on his lip. “Any derelicts in proximity?”

‘If we divert from course, there is one thirty-two million with a rightward yaw and pitch.’

“Where is it from the next assignment.”

‘Thirty-five.’

The warframe grunts as he pulls himself to his feet, “the sabotage, right?”

‘Correct.’

An exhale leaves the warframe as he moves to the front section of the orbiter, ruffling his hand through Rhubarb’s fur as she passes by. “Suuir, ping me when he wakes up. Going to clean and check the arms before I head out.”

‘Would you like me to tell him when he wakes?’ the cephalon’s tetrahedron specks through his vision.

“Please,” the warframe leans against the workstation and the spread of his sparse armaments, a half disassembled braton sits at the side. “How long till launch.”

‘We’ll be there in ten. Dropoff point is beneath the pylon under maintenance. You’ll have five minutes to return to extraction.’

“Fantastic,” he grumbles, golden claws clicking against the worn grip of his lato. Its barrel sits off-kilter as he brushes over the scratched matte, thumbing against the notch taken out. Uncertain of how well it’ll fire.

He tucks it into the holster.

 

A stinging in his neck makes Warren wince, reaching up through the covers in search of the ache. Within the darkness, shrouded from the cold of the quarters he palms between himself and the lump outside the warm comfort. There’s a brief tired shove against the warm lazy body as he tries to make himself comfortable, head slouching forward as the kavat presses back – releasing a mild chuffing yawn. Rolling to his side the teenager tries again, growling to the short burst of aggression. “Which of you –“ he grumbles, peeling the blankets back over his ruffled hair. Green eyes stare back, the kavat’s legs outstretched against the wall.

Crenshaw chatters back as she rolls back, ears flattened against the blankets.

“Cren,” he yanks the blankets stuck beneath her. She doesn’t move.

Defeated, Warren lies back down.

Tucking himself back beneath the blankets and the entombed warmth, he reaches over beneath the bench in search for the datapad. Fingers trace over the cold metal floor and the glass jar before he finally locates it, pulling it into the darkness as the screen flickers back to life. Index against it, he scrolls back through the vast documentation of nearly nothing, incremental observations made from the inspections of the scant references.

Suuir’s tetrahedron blips into the lower corner, which he barely registers. ‘Your father plans to get you a new plant.’

Somatic sights roam across the images on the palm-sized device. “I know, it’s rotten.”

There’s a pause as the ship gently rocks, gyro rolling through the distinct rumble of the liset leaving its internal perch.

The teen exhales, ignoring the pressure pushing against his back.

‘What have you planned to do with it, and the next,’ the cephalon’s words buzz before the tenno, cutting through a classified video.

“Suuir,” he bites his lip. A pause as his eyes search against the cephalon’s polygonal surfaces. “You have connection to that… chair. Right? Does the coolant have any part of it-“

‘No,’ sits stark. ‘Separate systems.’

“Oh,” he whispers, coiling a hand through his hair.

‘Where you going to ask if the reservoir could sustain it.’

“Yes,” answers meek, “it’s a stupid question. Forget it.”

‘There’s no information to the contrary,’ and the cephalon blips out, leaving Warren to wonder. Thoughts that fester as he waits out the hours and slips back into sleep.

 

Warren coughs as he dumps the jar out, rattling out the dried chalky strands as he holds a sleeve up against his face. Bundled in his coat and scarf, the spores still manage to irritate his senses, itching within his exposed mouth as he tries to wipe out any more of the arboriform remnants. A quick glance confirms the loki’s location a short distance away, peering around the overgrown derelict. “Is, there an assignment,” he coughs.

“No,” T’viska sighs, “but we’ll need to be on the lookout for infested.”

“Wha-“ the tenno pauses, brushing out the matter clinging to the jars lip. “What do they look like.”

“Infested,” a flat statement, “if it moves, isn’t Corpus nor Grineer, it’s infested.”

“Oh,” he chuffs another cough, balling his glove against his face as he sets the jar aside. He tugs his scarf tighter around his face as he leans into the balls of his boots, hoisting the jar up with him as he stands and tucks it into a side pocket. Warren’s quick to join the warframe’s side, looking over the rotten remnants that surrounds them as they proceed.

It doesn’t take long for them to come across the first infested.

Torn and scattered off to the side of the hallway, gore slicken the floor and wall, innards splashed and quivering as they begin to walk past. Holding a glove over his face, Warren looks over the mutated flesh that was once a grineer – the shattered skull lying limp beneath the eviscerated chest cavity, the bones and muscles sat torn by a heavy caliber round.

A side-wards glance reminds him to keep up.

Following after the warframe, Warren swallows the lump becoming lodged in his throat, adverting his eyes from the accumulation of corpses they pass. Body parts lie strewn in their path, tearing his eyes away to stare forward as the loki remains unfazed and curious. But they keep their pace, following the trailing of infested bodies, stepping over the spilt gore and the organs that have begun to shrivel and decay. Above the trunks of infested arboriforms slouch, spindles breaking through the cracks in the walls, coiling around golden spires and bending them out of shape.

Dropping down onto his haunches, golden claws etch against the bullet holes riddling the back of an ancient, smearing with blood as his eyespots flush open. A grunt. He looks to the scorch marks that lines the floor between where they entered and the spot the corpses lies.

“What is it…?” Warren’s voice remains at a whisper, holding back his breath.

“Nothing,” he lies, “it’s been a few hours since someone’s passed through.”

The teenager’s brows cross, uncertain to sigh, “should I worry.”

“If there was anything to salvage, then no,” the loki turns back, shaking the blood from his hand and smearing it against the wall. “Let’s keep moving, search every room we come across.” His lip twitches as he heaves himself to stand, staring over the ruin of the stranger’s wake. “Should be able to find something before they revive,” and he moves.

For a moment Warren remains stunned, glancing at the hulking form of the diseased, deceased ancient – and turns heel to catch up with T’viska, blood splattering his boots.

With the tenno pasted against his side, T’viska’s pace begins to slow, cautious as he holds a hand against the damaged lato’s holster. Where uncertainty clings in his thoughts and carves through the possibilities of the one that cleared the vessel still being there, and hostile. The focus of finding a healthy arboriform fades as he takes notes of the damage to the diseased trunks, the marks of an ember’s flame and the deep scratches of a Valkyr’s murderous claws – a scared arm holds his own.

Taking pause, the loki’s breath shakes, forcing his eyespots to close. What would he do if they’re still aboard?

He shakes it from his thoughts.

Guiding them away from the slaughter, he ushers the frightened teenager into another overburdened hallway drooping under the weight of water damage. “Hey, kid,” he briefs, exhaling, “have you found out anything yet, with these things,” he brushes aside a hanging rotten vine to let Warren through.

“There’s not much,” the teenager swallows, glancing around the waterlogged hallway before them, “much of it is muddied with speculation – or behind a Corpus cipher.” He watches as T’viska follows after him, pulling off the matter clinging to his horns. “But it’s in all Orokin vessels and towers – they radiate light and are connected to console platforms. Safe to say they might function like… electronics, nerves of a ship.” He looks to the ceiling, where lines of mutated arboriforms crack the weathered panels.

“So, these trunk things are the ships organs,” T’viska stands at his side, tossing aside the arboriform remnants that cling to his crown.

“In a way, yeah,” Warren steps down into the shallow waters before them; the warframe’s own barely make a sound as they slip in behind him. “There’s… not much in the way of circuitry that isn’t connected to them,” he turns, stepping backwards. “Classified documents detailed them.”

“From the weave?”

“The previous cephalon’s files,” Warren’s brows squeeze, “Suuir told me there was someone else…”

T’viska sighs, maw twisting into a snarl as he wipes away the oozing drapes of an arboriform for the tenno to pass through. “Suuir told you.”

“He… didn’t say much, aside from that you brought him aboard,” the teenager waits for the loki to duck beneath the slouching limb lined with energy cysts. “And these aren’t… his ‘specialty’.”

“You’ll have to ask Suuir what he means by that,” the loki grunts, passing by and peeking into one of the adjacent rooms. “He’s never told me who he was before I met him, the bastard.”

A blip flickers across T’viska’s vision, ‘I can hear you.’ The loki grunts, confirming with himself before stepping back in the flooded hallway.

Releasing a softened exhale, the tenno continues to wander. “But, the ship has them too, and somehow is sustaining them,” his eyes narrow as he runs a hand over a wavering trunk that runs along the hallway before it returns to perch – his somatic sights following it and the energy pulsations. “Dad, you think they could be… alive? And sick, the ships.”

The warframe’s shoulders shrug, bypassing the crisis of consciousness. “Who knows, much of the knowledge is being coveted. Whomever came through here… I have a feeling are affiliated.”

Warren stares, eyes following the loki as he walks into the connected hub, his hand held against the wavering of the diseased vegetation structure. It ebbs in the hind of his mind, a whisper and crowing groan that vanishes as he pulls his hand away. Looking to his palm, the smudging of diseased rot, the smudging of porous energy nodes, the teenager looks back over the truck lying decrepit in the hall. Back to his hand… it slowly clenches into a fist, thumb and index rolling the material from his fingertips.

…It was nothing.

He convinces himself.

“Warren,” T’viska calls over from inside the plaza down the hall.

He’s crouched near the center, crowded by the towering infested arboriform trunk that runs through the floor and ceiling. Muddied waters sit stagnant around his hocks clustered with rotting spores, golden claws hanging between his knees as he watches the teenager’s approach. With his eyespots sat in a slit, he turns to the trunk before them as Warren stands at his side, pointing along the ridge between the drainage ports and the fresh shoots. Struggling branches. “Would those work.”

There’s a moment of pause before Warren’s boots wade deeper into the flooded basin. They slosh through the stagnant pool, pushing away fragmented strands as he approaches the pairing branches that break through the stale water. Crouching down, his gloves cup beneath a slightly wilted wind trying to find its way back to the central trunk. Its coils waver as he guides it out of the wrapping – the lead it is trying to follow only ends with infested energy cysts.

Above him he can feel the arboriform quivering, almost… breathing as he holds the arboriform branch between his palms. Whispers ebb through his thoughts as he looks over the paling trunk, the green-grey it becomes the further along the slouching branches above them.

Claws rest against his shoulder, startling him.

“Well…?” the loki questions, looking over the gentle hold the tenno has of the relatively short shoot, just enough it might fit inside the jar tucked in Warren’s coat.

“Yeah… yeah. It looks healthy enough,” Warren whispers, looking over the question nervous foliage that begins to coil around his digit. “But I don’t know the best way to… take care of it.” Stalling – he can feel the weight of the spira blade fragment in his right-side pocket, coat fabric dragging through the stale water as he shuffles on his heels.

“That’s fine, Warren,” the loki reaches over, replacing the tenno’s hands as they retreat back hesitantly. Sitting uncertain as the claws force the growing branch to ache to the side, moving back as the loki pulls a blade out of its holster at his hip. Back and forth the warframe cuts into the brilliant white of the arboriform, carving it out with the worn edge. Warren steps back as the warframe crowds closer, investigating the shoot as he cuts through the lower ridge of the coiling mass.

With a final grunt, T’viska finally cuts it free.

“Thanks,” Warren whispers as T’viska hands over the arboriform fragment, tucking the ceramic blade away as the tenno pulls out the jar. Taking a couple steps back, the tenno seats himself onto a quivering diseased arboriform, jamming the oozing end through the opening.

Meanwhile T’viska watches the multiple entrances, his eyespots bright.

“Hey, dad,” the tenno holds the jarred arboriform shoot close to him, shivering as his boots sit utterly soaked with stagnant water. “was there… something off about those infested back there…?”

The loki looks over, quiet for a moment before walking through the ankle-deep waters and sitting beside the tenno. “Just not sure if who ever passed through is lone gone,” he sighs, leaning upon his knees. “Three of them, at least were the one to clear out the infested… way too many to handle on my own.”

“Shouldn’t… you and others be able to work together?”

T’viska’s lip snarls, “if only… they’re the ones that only leave the scraps. Those with the Lotus… I don’t trust them.”

“Why…?”

The loki fumes with his features, twitching as he finds his words. “They’re the reason we’re biting for scraps. They’re everywhere…”

“Oh…” somatics turn back to the arboriform sat on his lap, fingers dancing against the glass. Sinking as he stares to the currently wilted sprout. Releasing an exhale, fibers tickle against his throat, coughing the scarf to hang off the edge of his nose. It leaves a gap for the spores to fleck his gums, trying to compose himself until he finally yanks it back over his face.

At his side the warframe sighs, grunting as he pulls himself to his feet. “Let’s get back to the ship, we don’t need to be here anymore. You’ve got your plant.” He dismisses, thoughts still preoccupied with the fear of an ember, a valkyr, a third warframe that raises the tensely in his shoulders.

Warren hustles the jar against his chest, forcing himself to stand in his soggy boots that plod after the warframe’s delicate steps. His brow remains drawn tight, a frown crossing the remnants of his mouth beneath the scarf. ‘You’ve got your plant’… aches in the back of his mind, remaining silent as his feet remain soaked as he walks, making him shiver as he keeps moving from flooded hall to ones saturated with infested blood. A palm presses it against his chest, cradling it as he fights back the urge to cry.

Dismissed, barely a notion of satisfaction. Here just to keep him quiet and so he’ll have something.

A few steps in front of him, T’viska bites his lip.

He doesn’t know what he’s done wrong.


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -+- Kudos, sharing, and comments are encouraged! -+-
> 
> Tags will be updated over time.

Silence persists as the liset’s ramp taps against the overgrowth on the dock platform, further in as they finally board it, safely stowed away from the prospect of Lotus operatives or the dread of the infested hoards that still lie in waste. Warren clings to the jar and the slightly withering branch of arboriform, his face shielded from T’viska by his hair still stuck with derelict residue. Each side-wards glance the loki takes, all he can surmise is the down casted slouch, the reserved motions as the teenager coils himself small into the passenger seat. As he turns back to the console above them, his golden claws clicking against the console and breathing life into the old ship’s engines.

As he finally begins to ease it from the derelict’s dock, T’viska itches through his reservations, the memory of his words and the vulnerable worry of before. His motions are slow, calculated, just as the cumulation of the morphology he was given. Quiet, reserved, sharp on the draw and impatient; he taps in the connection to the orbiter waiting within its void cloak a few thousand kilometers away – out of the common routes for grineer and corpus alike. Suuir takes over the directive as the connection is affirmed, tethered back into entry as the cabin remains lull.

T’viska doesn’t turn when he hears Warren sigh, the slighting trembles of tearful shakes.

His maw twists into a frown.

What is he to do… turning his attention to the notation Suuir briefs in his vision.

One more mission to go before they can reach Mars…

The liset shutters as the locking pins secure the vessel into place, pulled rearwards into the cradle.

“After this mission, we’ll be in Martian orbit. Would you like to go there again, Warren?” the loki doesn’t look over as he hears the shuffle of damp boots, the squeaking on the metal floor.

“Sure,” he hears mumbled at his back as the liset’s ramp eases down. “That’d be nice,” breathing hitches, steps turning aggressive as they move from the vessel into the orbiter’s hanger proper.

Golden claws curl against the armrest, mouth turning into a confused snarl. The transmission of anxieties coil inside his chest, the transference of sensory hiccups. Fingers press against his temples from one hand, throwing the liset back into Suuir’s control. “Ready for launch,” he snarls, “let’s just get this fucking over with,” hands cup his face.

‘Rescue of an informant, requested by Corpus, held in a Grineer facility.’ The liset shutters out of the platform, surging into life back into top speed. T’viska takes control of the steering column, snarling as it jerks into his palms. It popped up while he was on his way back, ‘On route to execution, or prolonged interrogation. They have information on the Lotus.’

T’viska, one last time, checks the lato’s barrel. To kill or return them to a neighboring vessel.

He snaps the chamber back into the gun. Three rounds left.

 

Aboard the orbiter, Warren plods himself back to the residential quarters. Water pools beneath him as he sets the arboriform onto the display platform that connects the upper and lower platforms. His mouth, flesh and teeth, snarl as he rips off his coat, tears embittering his sight as he chokes back the sobs. His only pair of shoes are thrown into the corner, his coat tossed at the edge of the display platform as he shoves Crenshaw’s curious muzzle out of the way with a half curse and partial apology.

The look she gives him… startled and confused corrodes his efforts.

He scratches away the tears in his sight. He rids himself the total warmth of pants – leaving him more exposed to the temperate chill of the orbiter as he discards them. His feet are still wet, same for his ankles and part of his shins, the cold biting him to shiver as he storms around to the lower landing. From the meager cache of clothing he pulls out his other pair of pants, a shirt, underwear, and towel, digging them out in quick succession. His steps remain heavy as he chokes back the sobbing anxiety that clings in the back of his mind, hanging there in his throat as he slams the shower chamber door open. Drops the clothing to the side and locks himself inside – isolation.

Still clothed, hands wringing in his messy hair, Warren crumbles back against the tile wall. Snarling as he turns the shower head on, and the tears flow free.

He’s so fucking tired of crying.

It chases him even after he’s long dried out; his hair a hamper mess of natural curls in every which way as he sits bundled in front of the glass screen. At one side Crenshaw had curled herself up, her withers pressed against his thigh as he browses again through the near infinite trove of meager data. Nothing concrete he can find through Suuir or the previous cephalon about the plant sat at his other side, sitting quant in its jar. Almost alert as his bare void-stained fingers ease beneath areas once wilted, smooth but course on the growing ends. It hints him the lightest of a smile before he looks back into his reflection beyond the datapoints transposed before him.

There has to be something amongst the trove, his features snarl.

Fingers dance aggressive across the surface before him, through file after file, image after image amongst the classified and undisclosed, accounts ranging from intervened to abandoned records seizing from sporadic facilities along their path. Datamined and files sorted; there’s not enough, there’s barely anything to find! At the urging pain that splits in his sides, the transference, the reminder of the transference connection, only makes him angrier; and scared.

At this point, is it even worth trying…?

Warren shakes the thoughts from his consciousness with a huff, fingers pulling out corpus logs before him to read in earnest. Mere footnotes, minor mentions in passing of the strange white plants that bend and wind beneath the hulls of the tethered void-towers. The disgust of those rotting left in the derelicts that sprinkle throughout the solar system, remnants of the Orokin empire. His focus contorts, bending over against the anxieties that still plague him after Lua.

He pushes himself out with the self-defeatist rhetoric. He’s doing something wrong, all the information is there but he’s too fucking screwed up to read it right. That must be it, his hand screws through his hair, jostling it back and forth as he tries to tear out the ruminations that cobble in his chest, in his throat as his somatic sight dances over the screen. The hours he spent looking through them… the absolute bullshit he had to tinker with the files to get them into semi-coherent correspondence of data made difficult due to cephalon decay. He can only access the previous one for so long before Suuir’s words cut across the screen – they damage his neural process, they need to stop.

And cuts Warren off mid-sentence.

Is looking all this up even worth it…?

Warren glances over at the jar at his side, where the arboriform sits still with neural sap pooling at the base – reflecting solid in the low lights. Still alive… for how long he doesn’t exactly know, how long does it have left? His breathing stutters, palm rubbing against his sight where his mouth sits in bitter anger. Warren can feel himself trembling, watching it become more frustrating to course through the files placed before him, dismissing the cephalon off to the side as he just wants to know, want to just fucking know what he’s looking for.

His fist balls into the kavat’s fur, grounding him a semblance of stability, quelling the angry trembling that makes him worried – not helped by the pain that still occasionally blooms on his shoulders and back, the notion of gunfire, flame, and blade. Father on a mission, son stuck all alone…Warren fights back the chokes of feeling forgotten, dismissed to the uncaring cephalon that sits idle as he cries.

Tears mess against the glass before him.

And they reflect the inner glow of his sight as he moves onto a dark image of the void – null against the dark backdrop on the other side of the glass.

Fingers curling into fist. He can only tremble, pressing the ebbs of void energy against his reflection, staring at the exposed teeth made by Orokin abuse. Choking, shuttering, his forehead presses down against it, eyes falling closed as his left-hand dives against his side, patting.

The blades in his coat… right…

And it only makes him worse as the ruminations turn to dark verbal. Useless. Worthless. His brilliant blue eyes spotted with somatic implants curse into his reflection, snarling as tears stain down his cheeks and cut through his restraint. Pain of his own, pain of T’viska’s on a mission.

Warren’s hurting.

One foot over the other, he drops the blanket in a silent and slow motion, ebbing with void aggression as he stands to full. Standard wear, arms exposed, feet cold against the metal flooring, he moves back to the upper landing, following over to the coat that sits slumped and still damp half way down.

And he picks out the half of a spira blade.

And holds the blade against his wrist as tears stain over his eyes.

He’s hurting and he doesn’t know what to do. Physical punishment for doing something wrong, he tries to quell the screaming in the back of his mind, feeling the cold blade against his void corrupted wrist.

The damage of his face when being struck when he tried to stand up for himself, for other children, a slap he could feel and others couldn’t see.

His brows press tight, faltering back against the wall as he still holds it there… holds it there against his wrist.

This will make everything right… right?

His chest surges with choking breaths, sobs dripping through his chest and down his cheek and exposed gums. Clouding his vision, pressing it down as his hands tremble and shake.

Warren throws the blade, his hands curling into his hair as he cries.

 

Golden claws remain curled into the loki’s bicep as he watches the Corpus officials tend to the informant, half preoccupied with repayment, the other with the worry of Warren; half and half melding with the young corpus that sits huddled at the edge of the stretcher the medical technicians had pulled up when his liset landed in the port. At either side stands a corpus tech, and further out crewmen that are unnerved by his proximity to their medical staff.

T’viska can’t blame them; but at least none recognize him for now.

But it doesn’t keep the nerves on the back of his neck from standing alert, sat anxious as he listens to their banter that Suuir quickly translates. ‘He’ll be fine,’ the cephalon translates from a paramedic, ‘shaken up, the bullet in their shin will take some time to heal.’ T’viska tosses a sentence to translate back, ‘that’s a relief. Curious, what information do they have?’

Communication is broken off as the technicians cart the rescued informant away, giving Suuir the leeway he was looking for to handle the final part of the transaction. Thirty thousand credits more the loki sighs in relief, escorting himself back to his ship as the corpus techs keep their supras on standby.

Back within the safety of the liset only one thing still stings in his mind as he ignites the liset back to life, coaxing it out of the hanger and back to the cephalon’s control. “How’s he doing,” the loki frowns, letting his claws drift over where he felt the taunting of a blade bite.

‘He’s doing fine, T,’ floats across the loki’s vision, ‘he’s asleep right now… he didn’t do any harm to himself.’ It grants T’viska the room to breathe, lying back loose into the comfort of the pilot seat while Suuir directs the landing craft’s controls.

“So… he had it on him the whole time. Makes sense how he kept it secret for so long,” the warframe mulls, watching the dark sky sail before him. Suuir only grants him a minor confirmation. “The ship needs a fucking clean up… I would’ve noticed sooner,” he snarls.

‘Cleaned and repaired, T’viska,’ the cephalon rebounds in the peripherals of the warframe’s vision. ‘My bolts are still loose from when you tore it open and put me in the drink,’ his words cut across, rattling off the century worth of repairs that have not been done. The ones that haven’t been mended or are in desperate need of a technician’s hand.

The loki grunts, stretching an arm around his back and behind his head. “I’ve told you, I’ll get to it when I get to it. I’m the only one that’s getting any expenses taken care of,” he briefly snarls, stretching his worn muscles with a sigh, arm hanging off his neck. Eyespots hang open as he stares into the emptiness before him, watching neutral as the liset nears the location of the orbiter. A few minutes, and he’ll be back aboard…

“Suuir, how far off is the Bazaar,” he states flat, thoughts cobbling near the hind of his mind.

‘Three minutes from your current position; you wish to redirect?’

“Yes,” the warframe heaves another sigh, claws itching against the back of his head and down the side of one horn. “Get the orbiter to Mars; I want to run by the bazaar and get some things.”

‘Right,’ the cephalon flickers out of his vision, the vessel diverting beneath his feet. Golden claws grasp around the steering column at ease, feeling the automated systems beneath his fingertips as the cephalon’s directives guide the vessel away from the orbiter. Just as stated, it takes merely three minutes to close in on the semi-cloaked bazaar adrift over Mars.

Beneath the void cloak, T’viska watches as he zooms pass grineer galleons and heavy class interceptors, only releasing his tense grip as the liset settles into its boarding cradle, sinking into the restraints that hold it steady within the habitation bubble. Social tensity clings in the back of his mind, a meeting place of merchants and mercenaries, he pats the broken lato at his side – questioning if he needs a replacement or he can fix it later. Another thing to put off.

Though his steps remain light, the loki keeps his wits about him as he passes through the antechamber and into the vessel proper – where the looms of overgrown Terran and Martian flora hang over the floors above and below, the open-air platforms giving room to the median scale prompted by Lotus interference. Not the most comfortable place he’d rather be… taking a deep breath before he exhales.

First on the agenda… a bed; and he browses through a small directory where he might find one.

 

Fingers crawl through auburn hair as his exhaustion begins to wear off. Shivering, Warren finds himself slumped back against the wall, his feet and fingers freezing in the orbiter’s low ambiance as his eyes still remain tear-stung. Once pulled from his hair, his hands bury themselves beneath his arms, held there as he stares off into the middle distance, mouth pressing into a flat line.

Across from him, where it had rebounded off the display glass of one of the ship’s tanks, the spira blade.

Fingers knead in the warmth that radiates from his body as his mind sits lull, focus adverted from the physical to ruminate over and over, a cobble of self-deprecation and aggressive dismissal. He’s doing it all wrong; he should’ve just done it and let the ill red flow from his wrist. Impulsive thoughts that scratch against his neurals; overthought into the minor detail, the banishment of not overthinking and he’s an idiot.

His mouth twists into a snarl.

Clutching onto his shirt, curling his legs up against his chest, he forces his somatic sights closed.

Something else… he needs something else to concentrate on. His mouth bites at what remains of his lip, face pressing into his knees as he continues to shiver in the chill. Itching through the thought of self-hatred, the impulsive resentment of failure, he emotionally tears himself apart. As a vagabond child, the Zariman, the discovery and imprisonment beneath the Orokin empire – he snarls, pulling his legs close.

And the tears are pouring again… pooling against his clothing as he tries to wipe them free. His breathing stuttering, crying as the banishment to isolation plays over again in his mind – the internal trauma that wasn’t his own but felt just as real as could be. Being pulled from the somatic cradles and wavering to nausea and collapsing on functional legs.

Fingers pry through his hair.

Something else, his breathing hitches, fingers pulling and churning across his scalp.

Thrown into the isolation room… staring up above.

He releases his head, looking up into the direction of the now quiet holographic pane.

One foot over the other, Warren eases himself to his feet and side steps the spira blade as he walks to the lower landing. The jarred arboriform is still there, just where he left it as he fumbles down onto his knees, hands taking hold of the blanket that once covered him. He takes a second to pause, pulling the blanket over him as he still continues to shiver.

Sat with legs crossed, the arboriform shoot held almost beneath the blanket as much as him. Warren just sits there, looking over the minor structure fragments as anxious thoughts still scratch in his mind, bounding at the back of his consciousness as his somatic sight continues to look over the plant held between his palms. Even as silent tears begin their pour over his cheek and exposed mouth.

It’s at least something; his mouth stems a small smile, bundling it as his blanketed head falls against the glass with a muffled thump. Remaining there as impulsion drags through his mind, staring back into his reflection as his fingers grip around the jar. Something to keep him firmly grounded, he figures as he eases himself back to sit, hooded by the blanket that retains his heat.

Looking down to it, he sighs.

With the blanket still draped over him, checking once more before he moves, Warren stands up with the jar in hand. He ignores the half of spira blade as he walks around to the back of the residential quarters, exiting it and returning to the central walkway in order to cross it, wandering over to the medical bay. It drops from him there, which he allows once the door finally slips open for him and the jarred arboriform.

Engulfed by the dim lighting, swallowing his hesitation. Warren walks cautiously, bare feet moving from the raised platform that ramps down to the glass floor that separates the two halves, where an opening reaches down into the reservoir below. A breath choking in his throat forces itself down, overlooking the hole in the glass as he holds the glass against his chest. Forcing himself down onto his knees, looking between them – he sets the arboriform jar to the side, pulling back the sleeve of his left arm.

He reaches into the coolant water with an open palm to scoop.

And hisses as the radioactive water stings his skin, yanking it back and shaking it off.

Warren holds his limb close as he looks over the malignant damage that just as quickly heals itself as he sits there, breathing himself back calm. Between it, the arboriform, and the opening into the water below him, he questions. Wondering as his eyes flicker between them and the fish that swim beneath, the flora that blooms in the rolling reservoir.

With the same hand, he reaches over for the jar.

Taking a slow and steady inhale, exhale, he holds the jar steady in both hands. One sleeve pulled up, the other sitting loose around his wrist, he angles it, dipping it into the water carefully as for one side to plunge beneath the surface as the volume beings to flow inside. His hands remain steady as he endures the tensing pain around his fingers and palm, letting the water pour and filter into a quarter of the jar before he pulls back. It drops with a dull klink against the glass to his side, massaging his stinging fingers.

“Ow, ow ow,” he whispers, tucking his hands beneath his arms with a simmering grunt.

Sitting there, waiting for the pain to dissipate, Warren looks over to the arboriform. Nothing has changed; of course nothing has changed, he muses. A hand digs through his hair in exasperation, still choking on the earlier panic attack as he forces himself to sit and breathe.

It’s a few hours until T’viska gets back.

 

Fingers skate across the glass-bound display as the bulkhead slides open far behind him, listening back as a heavy weight begins to clamber down the short steps that connect the two landings around the raised platform. It eases to behind where he’s sitting, keeping his focus sat before him as he troves through the older documents recovered from the null cephalon. A hand perusing through the directory, another fiddling with the wrapping arboriform coil, his emotions sit flat, sight flickering to the muddled reflection behind him.

Halved curses speak in the backdrop as he tries to look through files he’s already poured through, trying to pick one more time for any semblance of things he’s missed, that there’s a reason he still holds a marginal interest in them. Or, a thought pulsates in the back of his mind, desperation, overthinking, thoughts that ache as a box is chucked away, collapsing in on itself as he looks back.

T’viska’s back is turned to him, wrestling with an unfurling bed as the blankets that once made it sit on the cushions at the side. Crenshaw tries her steps on it as the loki shoves it into the resigned corner between the wall and the cushion – a pawed foot shoving a crate out of the way with a grunt.

“Cren,” the warframe growls, picking up the feline before dropping her off to the side – where she only rounds back and jumps onto the bed.

Warren pulls his hand back from the glass, his other hand unwrapping from the arboriform coil.

Pulling away the plastics, rummaging them up into a ball, T’viska turns over to Warren. “Thought you could use a real bed,” he stems a smile; before he turns back and has to pull the kavat off the bed. “Crenshaw seems happy about it,” he grunts, dropping her off on the walkway before turning to continue replacing the covers.

Warren remains in place as he watches the warframe’s reflection in the glass, uncertainty digging through his thoughts as he looks back to the endless directory sitting in front of him. His hand hovers above the glass, fingers pulling back as anxious thoughts drip into self-doubt. And he holds the arboriform coil once more, at ease as static slips against the internal disapproval. To work, work, work, find a solution to the problem sitting at his side.

Cover over cover, he can hear the warframe make the bed and leave. Silence, he thinks, thoughts of being judged dig against his perception as he peels through the documents set in front of him. He huffs, anchoring to at least find something of importance – even as his tired sight drifts over to the reflection of the now made bed – watching it moment after moment as he goes over another document.

Behind him, he can hear the loki drop another parcel, keeping his attention before him.

“Hey,” the warframe whispers, crouching beside him.

Warren remains silent.

Golden claws nudge off the blanket that houses over the teenager, freeing his hair to furl freely from the static. “I’ve got you a new clothes – since your other ones are wet.” T’viska offers the tenno a jacket, its arms embroidered with golden trims, a firm black and grey tone with internal padding to retain heat.

Between his palms, he looks over it with half-lid eyes, straining back the trembling anxious thoughts. “Thanks…” is all he can muster out; he hadn’t taken care of the spira blade – worry painting over his nerves.

“Since you liked the boots, I got an exact pair just like them, and some food if you want to try them out?” He keeps his words hushed, tender as Warren stares at the jacket on his lap. “I’ve gotten some stuff for the kavats too,” he sighs, looking over to where the pair of packages sit beside the bed.

Warren remains null; a stunned and nervous silence.

T’viska pats him on the back, a slight sigh, “get some rest, okay? When you have, we can go down to Mars for a bit, if you want.” He remains in his crouch, hand dropping down to mirror his other hand. “If you need anything, call for me. Suuir needs me to do some repairs.”

‘I’m waiting,’ the cephalon makes himself known across the screen before them – Warren flinches.

T’viska scowls.

With one more affirmative pat, the warframe stands. “Crenshaw will keep it warm for you,” he tempts to laugh, “the archives will be there when you wake up,” the warframe pauses, “when you can… get some sleep, alright?”

Warren says nothing, hands wringing in the jacket.

Silence persists as the warframe walks away, rounding back out of the residential quarters and leaving Warren to sit before the glass.

And cry.


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -+- Kudos, sharing, and comments are encouraged! -+-
> 
> Tags will be updated over time.

The ride to Mars is painfully silent.

Gloves ball against the sleeves of his new jacket as he shuffles, an intermittent unease that wanders through his thoughts and waifs across through the sympathetic transference; Warren resigns himself half aware of his surroundings as each embittering attempt to converse is met by his dejected mumble beneath the scarf cloth. Leaning upon his knees, holding himself small, Warren merely rides out the hitches in the liset’s decent as it rocks in the timid gusts. Golden claws pry the craft into a settled yawn as sand puffs around the landing gear, machinery finding their placements as the engines ease down into idle silence.

As the loki goes through the off-boarding protocols Warren remains huddled, sight adrift as he holds himself firmly in place. Remaining slouched as the loki steps back to check the gear stuffed into the rafters and stow-away hatches, bantering amongst himself as the tenno’s hands curl.

‘Another practice session…’ Warren mulls, briefly looking back as the warframe pulls down a bundle of targets, a snarling grunt as he tugs it to land with a heavy thump.

Exhaustion taints Warren’s cognition, senses muddied as he barely retains any attention to the motions behind the seat as he leans into it, head cast back with a choking sigh as he fumbles to keep himself together. Fingers knead into the sleeves; biting his lip against the fierce strain of overbearing tears that threaten to brim his sight. To not dwell on it; ignore it, Warren shivers, holding himself still as his fingers pry against the jacket. They falter down beneath the flaps to pull himself into a tighter bundle, looking over anything that suits his need for redirected attention. The ceiling, the floor, the individual metallic grooves in the console before him as laces of energy lingers in the breath of the idle engine. He burrows himself in the scarf, sight hanging lull as he traces out the intricate little details and flaws.

Teetering under the threat of another breakdown.

“Everything’s set up, kid,” the loki whispers as he eases down into a kneel, resting an arm on the chair as he looks over to the teenager. T’viska’s eyespots register a split hesitation, mouth pressing a line as he watches the tenno flicker his sight over for a moment, then looks away. Despondent. A persistent, aching silence carries between; and the warframe releases a steady exhale. “Whenever you feel ready… I’ll be outside, alright?” And a clawed palm pats Warren’s shoulder.

It’s with a heave and a sigh that the warframe departs, his steps light as they move from the liset’s ramp down into the blowing martian sand. Piece by piece he reassesses the target posts, the cloth tatters of a few of the dummies that sit in snug haphazard bundles. Needlework keeps them tight in the easing gusts, shadowed by the cargo wreckage strewn out across the landscape. Double checking, triple checking, T’viska keeps himself occupied.

And, steadily, Warren pulls himself to his feet.

Confounded in the clash of hesitation, anxieties, a backlog of emotional baggage that he shoves into the deep recesses of his mind as he faces the sand. Gloved fingers scratch against the traces of tears as he pulls himself to walk, to do something aside from sitting alone in the darkness as he steps out into the shadow of the carrier. Questions scratch in the back of his thoughts that are shoved aside; still shaking, hands fumbling as he tries to find some measurement of self-control as he walks over to the loki’s side.

His features; cracking.

“I’m here,” he mumbles; and hitched by the trembling in his breath, the threatening sniff as he shuns himself away from the warframe’s sight. Wanting to think of elsewhere, not on the turmoil saturating inside his head.

And when the loki kneels down before him, hands holding his arms gently, he adverts his sight – not want to be seen like this, his breathing hitches. A fumble of inner criticism cascades – and he shoves off the golden claws from his sleeves. “Which weapon,” he forces a swallow, looking over between the curls of hair.

“Warren –” T’viska strains, hands turning into fists, watching and standing as the tenno storms over to where weapons have been laid out. Busted lato, reassembled braton, and the ceramic daggers; the ammo sits sparse – the allotment for off-contract use. It takes a moment, a hesitation, and he grabs the teenager’s arm.

“Let go of me!” Warren snaps, his voice trembling, tears creasing his sight.

Useless. Worthless. Scratches in the teenager’s mind.

“Warren,” the loki snarls, “calm down, there’s –”

It’s too late; as his emotions fissure.

“I am fucking calm!” he yells, trembling as his fists press at his sides, ebbing with void energy. “I’m- just wasting my time, aren’t I? I can’t find anything on those fucking plants; not even scant theories that aren’t locked behind some Corpus bullshit!” Cyan energy flickers through his palms; can’t fight back, never fight back. Tearing up. “There’s –“ he chokes, “there’s nothing for me, isn’t there? After the war, the sentients, the Orokin, there’s nothing… nothing,” his voice quivers, hands pressing against his face, across the remnants of his facial damage.

Gloved fingers curl, trembling, teeth gnash aggressive.

A fucking failure.

And T’viska just stands there, a hand barely held out as the turmoil casts through his own mind.

Doubting his own thoughts as they contort in form with the teeanger’s lashing somatic signal; anger, fear, uncertainty and a lingering embittered hatred. He doesn’t move – he can’t move as the tenno’s breathing shutters, choking, crying as he holds his fists at his side. “Don’t… just fucking stand there,” he mumbles, a fist swiping away the pouring tears. “Fucking, say something,” he snarls – halfhearted and stained with the crumbs of loathing. Of doing nothing before, the things out of his control that he’s lost without – why? Why can’t he fucking function?

“Jacob,” T’viska fumes, neural processes overloading with the anxious bleeding that ensnares him in place. “Warren,” he tries again, choking to try and find his wording. “You’re not at fault for what they’ve done to you,” he tries to reach over – but it’s shoved away through his own nerves – cast off with the frantic shake of a downcast head. Not having it; not taking the lies that are so thought.

“I fucking know that, dad!” the teenager cries; shaking, trembling. His breathing hitches, “but I – I don’t fucking know what to do, and just –“ he falters, fingers prying through his hair. “I’m – I’m useless,” he sobs, “I can’t find anything, do anything to help…” he chokes, “please…” he stutters, a hiccup, “I’m a burden, aren’t I…? You can’t do anything with me around…” his voice creaks, crumpling down to his knees.

T’viska’s hesitant to force himself forward, a snarl breaking across his face as his eyespot remain in aggressive slits. Tumbling through the thunderous waves that crests his thoughts, the overwhelm of the somatic control – but its hinge of encouragement is short lived as he kneels at the tenno’s side. A sentimental reaching out that retracts as an elbow pushes away half-hearted.

And golden claws rest around the teen’s back, a gentle pat with a sigh.

“No, Warren, you aren’t,” the warframe hushes, leaning into the crestfallen sobs. Easing the teenager to lean against him with a sigh. “It’s… not easy to get over that shit,” his lip curls, “it’s going to take time… to not feel bad about just existing.” He eases the teen’s head over, whispering, “we’ll get you through this – alright?”

“Okay,” Warren sniffs, angrily brushing away the tears. “I’m…” he swallows, “just so tired of this shit… being afraid of everything.”

“I know, kid,” the warframe adjusts, sitting on his legs as he rubs the teen’s arm. “But it’ll get better, okay? Don’t worry about dad, just focus on yourself. Alright?”

There’s a swallow of tears, a huffed nod as the tenno fumbles to pull himself together, his sleeve pressing against his face. “I know but…” he halts, pulling himself away to bury his forehead against his knees. “I can’t do anything…” he shakes.

Silence stings inside the loki’s thoughts, uncertain of what else to say as the teenager sits there – the warframe’s arm still hitched over in a sentiment of comfort, that he’s still there. T’viska looks over the target markers, the posts he set up in hopes of deluding the resentment that course through the somatic current. “You might not be able to right now,” he sits up, pulling his hand away as he moves to stand. “But you have focus, kid, I’m sure you can crack whatever the connection is between them – the plants and the chairs.”

Hesitant about bringing up the neural override. Where outside the seat the tenno made him immobile.

“That arboriform, back on the orbiter, how’s it doing?” T’viska moves over to Warren’s other side, sitting down.

“It’s… doing okay, I guess,” Warren hiccups, his sleeves stained with tears. “The reservoir waters… haven’t done any harm to it so far. And it’s still reacting.”

“Good,” T’viska sighs, leaning against his knees with crossed arms. “It’s a good place to start… working off of experience.” He looks over, letting a sigh slip from him, “you can only glean so much from documents… it’s really hands-on experience that gives insight. I could study codes for decades and not complete a single assignment.”

“Yeah…” Warren swallows, wiping away tearing remnants.

“Whatever you feel like doing… just tell me, alright? Be it looking at a derelict or running on a mission, I might not be able to do them all,” T’viska adjusts himself, legs crossing against the sands. “But I’ll try to fit in those occasional trips when I can,” he sighs, “Suuir could use some help around the ship… you could probably poke around and see how the ship’s guts function too.”

Warren nods, still shielding his face. The briefest of a smile marred with the remnant cries.

Golden claws pat his shoulder, easing him over to a hug. “We can go back, if you want.”

Again, Warren nods; exhausted.

Exhaustion that directs him back to the bed once he’s aboard, cradling himself amongst the body heat comfort left by the kavats – whom leap back on after him one by one. Their bodies crest around his cocooned form, Crenshaw cradling against his fists before Warren throws a sheet over her. Rhubarb skips and hops around them before she cuddles herself against his back, where each motion coaxes out a stubborn whine.

From the other end of the cushioned bench the loki watches them find peace, listening until the teenager’s breathing falls calm. Finally finding sleep.

On the other side of the door, T’viska sighs, “how long was he awake, Suuir?”

’38 hours,’ not too long, ‘he took a brief nap before continuing through the archives. Without it, 74,’ the tetrahedron flickers at the edge of the loki’s vision.

He snarls.

Should’ve paid more attention… but he’s always off on some mission, and Suuir isn’t a suitable guardian for an anxiety riddled teenager. Claws press his forehead, mediating on it as he leans up against the wall.

“Suuir,” the loki growls, head falling back as his arms cross. “Let him work on the systems, poke around a bit.”

‘Are you certain that’s a good idea? To let him poke around.’

“You don’t have a choice in the matter, cephalon,” the loki hisses through his teeth, “what I am asking is for you to give guidance. Letting him figure out on his own won’t exactly be suitable to keep things running, now would it?” Silence, a stalemate as the cephalon’s polygonal representation fizzles at the edge of the loki’s sight before blipping out.

T’viska heaves a sigh, pushing himself off the wall with a roll of his shoulders, “Suuir,” he breathes, “can you send me the stuff he was looking at?” Gold claws squeeze against his biceps as he walks up the ramp to the upper hall. The cephalon never answers, merely transferring the records over the neural signal from one to the other. Thousands muddy his internal listing, vision decorated with relevant keywords and earmarked for the potential of arboriform consensus, ones that linger with the base possibility of vital information.

Sitting himself before the navigation console, the loki stretches his shoulders. His spine. Each of his joints one by one as he begins to pick through the files new and old.

And begins discarding them.

As he eases down into long hold stretches, T’viska picks through for the more relevant files; the ones that are more than a mention amongst the expounds of an unrelated excursion, more than a brief glace of subjective hints, ones that aren’t a list of faulty information or construes and turns into nonsensible garbage. In, and out he breathes, flipping through them; compare and contrast, if there’s connections not yet made between the scraps.

Pulling himself back with a steady exhale, the warframe switches to his other side, peering through the files, picking them apart and separating out the relevant from the oversized bulk, stowing them away into their own filings before he culls the rest. Only to set them free once the irrelevant are sent away, repeating the process, dwindling from thousands into hundreds.

And he begins another set of long held stretches.

Exhaling.

 

Golden claws allow the datapad to slip from his grasp.

It lands with a softened pat before sliding down on the ottoman sat in front of the cushioned bench as a minor tone plays overhead – a finger pushing it over, to where device doesn’t hang off the edge as he takes a glace to where the tenno and kavats lie asleep. At peace. Looking back to the datapad, T’viska taps it to remain open on the cultivated research – down from a few thousands to less than 500.

“Suuir, when he wakes up tell him I parsed through it, narrowed it down,” he exhales, his sight caught on the jarred arboriform sat in front of the camera-fed vista.

‘Affirmative,’ the cephalon doesn’t bother to make his polygon known, saturated by contract correspondence.

Setting the jar in the middle of the ottoman, T’viska reads through the mission details sent to him by Suuir; duration assignment, a transport of sensitive material on a corpus vessel. A small frown creases his features, turning himself back to the steps that lead into the upper landing, hand gesturing the lights to dim as he departs.

“You’ll let him poke around while I’m gone,” T’viska doesn’t ask, wandering himself over to the workbench, picking through his small arsenal.

‘I will,’ the cephalon waves him off, detailing the vessel that will carry the cargo once it reaches the port.

“Good,” the warframe’s maw flinches, counting over his remaining spira blades – the half sat off to the side and embedded into the scratched wooden finishing. “Make sure he eats too,” he snarls, testing his forearm wraps, securing his belt band around his gut and the one that slouches over the skirt. “I’m relying on you, Suuir.”

‘I’m aware of that,’ the tetrahedron flickers at the edge of his vision, depositing the schematics.

The warframe fiddles with his gear as his cognition pieces through the cargo ship’s layout, plucking a capture device out of a bin. A mess of noise made of clicks taps and snaps as he doubles and triple checks himself, leaning up against the workbench, his sight breaking through the schematics to glance over at the partial spira blade sunk deep. He exhales, mouth pressing flat.

“Worried…?” the cephalon cuts through.

“What gave you the hint,” the loki chuffs, tucking the capture device away at his side. “How long is the window?”

‘A few minutes, I’ll signal when the gyro-locks are in place. Information says it’s a touch-and-go.’

T’viska grunts; and pushes himself from the workbench.

 

Tired eyes clench as he rouses from the depths of sleep, pulling himself into a tightly wound ball against the persistence warmth – yet also hampered by the kavats that pin him beneath the blankets, shoving against one with a grumble. Worming around, twisting himself and throwing off a sheet, a hand reaches up against his temple, index and thumb prying beneath his curly hair as his eyes try to find focus in the darkness, somatic sight abuzz and groggy. Hand over fist, he pulls himself out of the entombed blankets, twisting himself into a sit where his back rests against the wall. The corner of the room.

Looking out into the dimly lit room, his eyes fall shut once more – heavy as he listens to the soft tunes still playing through the residential quarter. It lulls through his tired mind, head tapping back against the wall as he reclines.

A moment of silence; extended as he leans himself forward, head resting in his hands.

An exhale.

When he finally looks up Warren catches sight of trained blue eyes that stare back, ones connected to a fan tail that flickers and smacks down against the bed. As he moves, it quivers, large ears perked forward. He sighs, reaching out with one hand, “oh Rhu,” the adarza kavat plurps as he scratches beneath her chin, leaning up into his palm as the tufted ears drift back, eyes falling closed.

One hand becomes two as the kavat stretches out, pulling herself up onto his lap for additional attention. Petting over her tufted cheeks, cradling them for a moment; Warren smiles, stroking over the short mane of fur that stands from her head to between her shoulders. Rhubarb cradles herself against him, on his lap as he reclines back against the wall with a sigh, his somatic sight hanging lull as he browses the room.

His sight hinges on the datapad left out on the ottoman sitting out of his reach, the jar that sits beside it that glows from the seemingly healthy arboriform within.

Warren’s smile begins to fade, sinking down beneath the sheets as he slumps, hands plying through the kavat’s fur.

Still has to get up… stuck beneath exhaustion physical and mental.

Lifting the kavat’s front legs, he sets Rhubarb off to the side. Peeling off the sheets, freeing his legs of the blanket imprisonment, he crawls to the other end of the cot where he lets himself rest; head in hand, an arm crossed over his gut, he barely snarls, head spinning. Pressure tenses in the back of his eyes, rubbing against them as mild pain splinters across his back.

Gunfire.

A hand messes through auburn furls as he strains to find his senses, eyes bolting from the datapad, the jar, the dismissive camera view that gives the false pretenses of a window into space. Fingers press at his temple, rubbing, pulling back and through his hair with a sigh. The same shit. As he takes a moment to find his grounding, Warren plucks the datapad from the ottoman, his eyes hanging over the open lines of text that fills the hologram display. ‘You’re awake,’ Suuir’s text holds at the side of the device, turning with the orientation.

“Mhhh,” the tenno mumbles as he leans on his legs, letting the device dangle between his fingers before letting it tap on his opposing wrist. “On a mission,” he mumbles, looking up to the glass display, and then back to the datapad with furrowed brows.

‘T’viska culled the records,’ he reads, the cepahlon’s tetrahedron nowhere to be seen. ‘Most of them were just fluff, he said.’

“Oh, did he,” his tired sight moves from it to the arboriform.

It glows in the low light, the base sat firm as it fills the lower quarter of the jar.

Easing in another inhale, he looks back to where Rhubarb had replanted herself in the corner he once resided, over to where Crenshaw still sits nestled on her end beneath the thrown over covers. Exhaustion still aches in the back of his mind, thumb rubbing against the datapad as he pulls it up onto his thigh. “Suuir, what type of mission is dad on.”

‘Sensitive research retrieval, duration assignment.’

“How long is he gonna be gone,” his somatic sight flickers over the datapad, index finger scrolling through the incredibly shortened list of references he can turn to.

‘Uncertain, as he needs to still find the target and their docket.’

What remains of his mouth presses flat, reaching over to where he left his jacket and the small transponder. He fumbles through the pockets for a moment before his memory kicks in – last left it in his coat jacket, the one laid out on the platform on the higher landing. He gives in.

Crawling himself back beneath the blankets with a stern grunt.

“Suuir,” he whispers as he throws the blanket back over himself, curling back against Rhubarb who keeps her place, “did dad ask you anything while I was asleep.”

‘That you’re to help out with repairs – given you may have interest in them.’

“Since the ship’s got the same plants, yeah,” he sighs, throwing the blanket over his head. “Whenever… I can, I want to do that, I’ve been thinking on it…” his words fall mute, eyes squinting, flipping through the documents. Nearly full records from corpus experiments, technical details pulled from a ship’s manifest, things he glossed over in the throes of anxious research or ones buried beneath a cipher. Once overwhelming.

He’s glad, gracious, even.

Despite the pilfering that digs at his heart.

“I… want to look over them on this thing, is it alright, Suuir?”

A set of lights blink at the top edge of the datapad, a signal retrieval.

“Thanks.”

And Warren falls quiet, scrolling through the documents and the raw datapoints that lists from the somatic cradle – a blunder of information that at first seems overwhelmed in the vast calculations, but soon he just eases into noncommitted browsing of information that tells him nothing, scrolling over the repetitive string of 44697669796f6e69


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -+- Kudos, sharing, and comments are encouraged! -+-
> 
> Tags will be updated over time.

It’s with a huff that the teenager gives into his exhaustion.

Warren’s neck and spine prickle with crooked cramps as he tries to roll his shoulder where he sits slumped; failing that, he forces himself to drop the datapad before leaning back on his arms, head craning back to stretch out the hour-filled aches that tingle through his spine. Its nervous pressure continues to strain as he sits lax, a nerve pinching and driving worn fingers against his nape with a painful hiss. Blinking tired eyes, he strains to understand the symbols that correspond to the circuitry panel sat before him; turning himself over to the datapad as he wipes his hand on his pants – a smearing of oil that carries across his nose as he rubs an itch.

‘You should rest,’ the cephalon flickers at the side of the screen, half obscuring the diagram readout on purpose. ‘It’s been 76 hours and 27 minutes since you’ve last rested proper; T will be displeased.’

The tenno flicks the cephalon’s readout to the side, “I don’t care.” His voice is low; disjointed as he pulls himself back to the panel. Lingering the briefest of a pause before he continues to match the reorganized circuitry back together, listening into the chatter that waifs through the orbiter’s radio interception. For what… he’s not certain.

Something to tune out his thoughts, perhaps.

He flinches as electricity arches through his fingertips – forgetful to ground himself as he shakes it off, splicing another series of wires back together and sliding it back behind the panel. The tenno pats the sides of the panel’s locking pins – checking its stability before pulling off the panel plate. “How’s this working for ya, Suuir,” half whispers, flipping through the datapad for the settings to tune the partly repaired component for the medical bay.

‘It’s in need of calibration,’ the cephalon pulls himself back into view, humming life into the anti-toxin system long worn down. ‘Take some rest, T’s orders.’

“He hasn’t rung me up, Suuir,” the teenager sighs, briefly gesturing to the transponder slung over his ear. It’s cheap, but useful for now as he pulls himself out from beneath the shelving and back to the mess of flora debris. The datapad languishes beneath the overhang as he sits back against the short landing, resting his shoulders and head back with a disheveled grunt – tired but unwilling to give in. At least for now.

Looking over towards the hole he’s crawn out of, Warren begins to recount as Grineer frequencies surge through his thoughts, hammering away at his somatic recollection. The tightening of loosen screwed amongst the habitational units, securing the cephalon’s neural catalyst within the central tank properly before he checked the hanging wires, the sparse frays he had since replaced. Clearing out around the foundry of bloody debris; items long abandoned that have since collected traces of dust, remnants of long forgotten missions of the past that he since turned towards cleaning every section of flooring, wall, and cranny. Sorting through the immeasurable amount of junk with T’viska on the other end, finally fishing out the languishing filtration device the loki had since forgotten to install that would have kept the floral affliction at bay –

Warren’s drowsy somatics look over the veiny growths that emerge from the creases in the ship’s walls, latching itself deep into the vessel’s components and in long need of physical removal. To be reduced to nothing but their base components within the material storage bay. Where items are created and reduced at whim to the cephalon.

Fatigue rolls over his eyes as his head falls back, eyes squeezing closed as the radio interception trades out to the calling of an infiltrator on Corpus wavelengths – an ivory warframe with bound forearms.

He barely registers the prickles of beam burns along his arms as he sets them back behind his head.

Still a couple hours left until they’re able to pick him up…

The tenno frowns, staring up at the ceiling with heavy eyes.

Hoping the radio chatter will help him sleep.

Listening to the ship ebb and whisper behind his back, the churning of internal systems as the filtration unit shudders and huffs – coughing out dust before it rumbles, and purrs.

His nerves flinch, hustling himself to stay sedentary even as his thoughts jitter. The engine rumbles beneath him, the echoes shaking through his spine and throat and thoughts as the filtration breathes around him, as the whispers of creaking flora aches around him as long as he remains there, listening to the shouts and screams of corpus or grineer, the slightest aspect of non-aligned communication being intercepted from vessels in need of help. His brain rattles with what he’s not yet done – the flora, nor the somatic systems he’s been so drawn to – snapping his attention closed as fists press against his eyes.

The arboriform in a jar; his thoughts shudder.

He’s forgotten all about it.

Even as anxiety chokes him, to break out into a spring through the door hands on the walls scampering across to the end of the ship and down to the lower landing where he thinks he might’ve – thought he might’ve left it… Warren remains calm as he meditates on every motion, head spinning and swaying.

Hands down against the landing, Warren slowly pushes himself up and pulls his knees up beneath him; each contraction of weary muscles, each directive of tired nerves, the tenno eases his breathing away from the racing pulse squeezing within his throat – head spinning, stumbling up onto his feet as his body leans up against the overgrown flora with a groan. A hand rises – and slaps back down against the plant as he tries to motion the medbay door to open – fingers wrapping against the bulkhead strut as his nerves ache – exhaustion. He well knows it, but continues to ignore it… shoving it back down and away from his thoughts. He can rest later.

His leg wobble beneath him as he tries to walk. Leaning up against the wall just outside the door, the illing texture of the grotesque overgrowth between his fingers – and pulls himself forward with an aggressive huff.

 

Strained claws click against the ramp as blood drips down the warframe’s stumbling legs. T’viska leans against the orbiter’s innards as his breathing heaves, near lurching every other slow and deliberate step as he tries to keep his pace stable, careful as his legs and hands are soaked with infested blood. Callous as he casts away the cephalon’s static-toned concerns, gulping down his breaths as his focus remains to get inside the welcoming cold of the ship, to lean up and clutch against the side of the foundry. His cognition remains fuzzy even as he calls out to the cephalon – his transmission jumbled, rattled and fuzzy as one of his horns still continues to fuse itself back into shape – black blood marking the region of where he took the shattering blow.

Bending down onto his elbow – golden claws touch his ringing temple and pull away. Soaked; soaked with wine black without a speck of the crimson and infested pus. He can feel it ooze over his eyespot, the ones on his right-side squeezing shut. “Shit,” is all he manages. Trying once more to call to Suuir; for filtered water as he pulls a scrap down from overhead.

‘Warren’s passed out, lower level,’ the cephalon mulls at the edge of the loki’s vision.

The loki remains leaning against the foundry, holding his temple with a hiss as he holds the fabric against the fusing wound, waiting for the enigmatic system to fulfill his request. “Was it the blow I took,” his voice slurs, slowly picking out the canister of filtered water from the exit port. “Please, don’t tell me it was,” he mumbles, soaking the folded-over blood dampened cloth. Wincing as it presses against the healing fissure between his temple and his horn.

The cold liquid is well welcomed in place of the pulsating warmth.

‘It wasn’t,’ much to T’viska’s relief, running the damp cloth down against his broken shoulder. ‘He’s been awake for 72 hours with only a few ‘naps’. Should’ve wakened by now.’

A sigh breathes though the loki, discarding the soaked fabric for another. “It’s for the best he gets as much rest as he needs… just get us to our next destination, would you, Suuir…?”

The cephalon flickers off; never needing to be asked twice.

Leaning up against the foundry, he wipes away the blood drips that threaten to stain the surface, carefully as he takes the time to piece through his thoughts. Held there as he lets the final pieces of his head injury finally settle itself into place as his body heals itself in full – his gut filled with gore – blood coating down his jaw and front. He wipes it down the same as the rest, dabbing the clean edge into the canister before him to draw gore out of his breaths.

Looking down, T’viska pauses. Wrist laid against the edge.

Blood soaks his forearm wraps.

And wipes his palms against his ruined leggings.

With a steady exhale, the loki undoes the material from his scarred forearms, depositing them into the nearby intake valve that tends to it deep within the orbiter’s systems. To be cleaned, material processed and sterilized for eventual reuse – but he doesn’t wrap new ones, merely leaning against the foundry’s surface. Wiping as much as he can from his head and upper body before the rag runs red and black, dumping it into the ship’s processes as well.

Head hanging down, easing his breathing to calm… he tries to dispel his thoughts of anguishing possibilities; that he’s complicit in the tenno’s suffering, complacent to the pain that squeezes in the back of his mind as he thinks to stand, almost pulling a scrap down from overhead before looking down as clothing sticks – looking over the growing pool at his paws, the side-hitched skirt that lies tattered.

He tears it off, throwing it into the bin for reconstitution; and yanks down a fabric from overhead.

Trailing blood as he walks down the ramp into the lower section, towards the medbay, his features scrunch as he looks over where the teenager has landed; all crumpled up asleep on the floor, shivering as he only wears the most basic of insulative clothing he has available. Arms bare to the cold air; insufficient, even more so as his skin lies against the cold metal.

T’viska sighs, turning himself into the medbay to clean himself better of the blood. Not in any manner methodical in his cleaning, wiping down his front as best he can without having to replace the half-wet fabric as he dumps it down into the reservoir; aware of the cephalon’s displeasure as he dunks his forearms into the waters – flinching as it stings.

It always stings; a mild thought that groans in the back of his mind as he shakes off the water. Cleaned.

With the rest of the rag he blotches off the wet spots, the traces were water runs black. As sufficient as he can do it without returning for a second washing, returning to the foundry only to stuff the blood and water saturated fabric into the intake portion. Taking one final cloth to doublecheck no traces lie over his chest or arms – giving into the idea he’ll have to carry the teen to bed.

At Warren’s side, he kneels.

“Hey, kid,” T’viska whispers, a palm shaking the tenno’s side.

He’s not expecting much of a response as his palm pulls back, leaning into his thigh as he waits for any sign of movement that may hint a lingering consciousness. Shoulders slumping with exhaustion as he waits, giving himself time to think over what to say later if Warren does wake up; then tries once more to rouse the teen, rolling him more firmly.

No response.

With that, the warframe grunts as he moves to lift the unconscious teenager from the floor shoulders first, jumbling him into a sit before he can manage to grip behind Warren’s back, a hand winding beneath his knees to hoist him against the warframe’s chest. And sitting back onto his ankles, breathing a slow deep exhale, T’viska heaves himself to stand; it’s with relative ease that he’s able to bare the weight cradling against his chest, but the ache of still stinging muscles that cause him difficulty and his bare muscles that rub against the textured material of shirt and pants. Despite it, he holds Warren firm as he walks back towards the residential quarters.

Shivering fingers grip against his arm as he lies the teenager down, groggy eyes pressing open and bewildered as he steps away and sits to the side. “W-what happened,” the teenager’s voice slurs, forcing himself to sit – only to collapse leaning upon one arm, the other digging through his hair with a snarling curse. He shoves Crenshaw’s curious snout away, holding his racing skull.

“You passed out,” T’viska sighs, leaning on his knees, “Suuir told me how long you were awake.”

“Yeah, so?” Warren mumbles, head spinning as he tries to force himself to sit up, heaving his legs over the side of the bed and throwing the sheets away as they catch in his fingers.

“Warren,” T’viska halves, looking over the teen and the ceiling, “I know… how much you want to be doing something, but you need to get more rest.” Uncertainty bites his lip, head hanging low.

“Filter’s fixed, but there’s still the plants in there that need removed. And the matter behind the walls need to be removed too,” the tenno snarls; hands holding against a pulsing headache.

“I know,” the loki sighs, hands wringing. “But it’s no use doing any of that when you aren’t able to take care of yourself, Jacob. That’s what I want you to tend to first. You’ve done so much in such short time… taken care of bullshit I should’ve done years ago.” He ignores Suuir’s chide comment at the edge of his sight. “But if you can’t take care of yourself first, and foremost, how can you take care of anything else?”

Fingers pry against the tenno’s temple, pressing. Mouth opening to say something, to spill anxious thoughts that T’viska can feel ready to pour through the emotional tension – and is bitten back, eyes squeezing shut. The binding of hesitation that digs through throat and chest, a worrying sensation that the loki swallows down.

“Would you consider, when you’re not cleaning up the place, or doing research or maintaining this busted thing, coming along on a mission for a bit. When you feel up to it, of course. More are coming up that are a string of related contracts… and I can’t make it back to the ship on those occasions.” He looks over, watching as the teenager sits quiet.

Looking away, only breathing with a lingering trace of anxious thoughts – T’viska doesn’t want to tempt it from pouring over.

“I’ll let you think on it, alright?” Golden claws gently pat the teenager’s slumped shoulder.

Warren only barely nods, still looking away into the distance; tears threaten to pour.

Painfully silent; T’viska’s mouth pulls into a line.

And he pulls Warren into a hug. “Get some rest, kid, alright? We can talk about this later, when you’re ready.”

Only a weak ‘okay’ responds, muffled against his shoulder as fists tug against his back in response.

Pulling himself away and moving to stand, T’viska watches as the teenager crawls himself back beneath the sheets, fuming and throwing them off to the side before he covers himself in totality. Sniffs breathe beneath the sheets before he finally falls quiet, asleep in mere seconds.

T’viska hopes the sleep is peaceful.

 

Heaving foliage remnants into transport canisters at the base of the ramp, T’viska doesn’t turn his head as the residential quarter door slips open, nor for the kavat that rubs against his leg. It’s all hushed compared to his own breathing as he breaks down the floral mass into the separate containers, material to be reconstituted into the ship’s gut and redistributed as malignant material – or so Suuir told him as the cephalon remains at the edge of his sight. Through the somatic interlay he can feel Warren’s presence move behind him, the tenno’s steps as he moves to pick up the scraps that fell from the oozing foliage he tore from the medbay’s walls.

“Where’s this go,” the tenno whispers, and T’viska gestures to a separate container, peeling off another layer from the plant hiked up on his knee.

“Suuir wants them in smaller chunks,” the loki glances over, “it’s easier for the system to break them down if they’re small.”

A non-committal grunt is all that returns, picking up the pieces of debris that litters the floor.

Silence; aching silence that continues longer than it makes T’viska comfortable, peering over to where the teenager had sat himself as he picked through the bud of one of the plants. His sight is distant, numb as he picks piece after piece off the small sprout he yanked from some portion. It does keep his attention to something, T’viska sighs, mouth drawn into a line, fumbling with how to approach the situation – to get the teenager to talk about something at the very least.

“So, Warren,” he attempts, pushing another torn piece of plant into a canister nearly set to be shoved into the foundry. “How’s the research going with the – arboriforms?”

The tenno looks startled as he turns away from the plant held in his gloved fists, sitting quiet for a moment before his features frown, looking back down. “Not too much that… I haven’t gleaned from my experience with them, honestly. In the schematics… they’re all over, connecting all the systems to one another, keeps everything in check.” He scratches at the plant noncommittedly.

“Suuir told me you did an excellent job installing the new filtration system earlier,” T’viska pipes up, setting his half-stripped piece of flora down.

“Mhn,” Warren chews his lip, “I don’t think its fit in right…” he picks up an empty canister, careful to put the torn pieces inside. Even the little scraps that fell over his lap. “The connector in the back isn’t adequate enough, the ones it’s suppose to connect to have a hard time latching into the systems even after I trimmed them down to size.” He pauses, “Suppose I could go back and double check it, make sure there’s no growth back there.”

“It’d be best if we started clearing out the large masses first,” T’viska interrupts his train of thought. “Take it one piece at a time, so at least that way there’s more room and can tell what you’re going to be exactly working on,” he tries to stem a laugh, picking up a couple of the canisters. “Then, after that, worry about if somethings correctly set up or not – they don’t always have to be exact. If Suuir felt there was an issue, he’d tell you.”

Warren watches as T’viska carries the canister off, fiddling with the one he’s already started to fill. He remains quiet as he picks out another part of the culled overgrowth that lies at the edge between the doorway and the surface of the reservoir, piece that the loki has cut free while he was asleep. He doesn’t flinch when cleaned canisters land a meter away, sunk deep into thought as T’viska picks up a couple more to dispose of.

The teenager says nothing when the warframe returns to the piece of foliage he was working on, stripping it down to the bare raw fibers as the ooze of sap sticks to the floor. As while the tenno is careful, picking at each little piece before finding a breakage, T’viska just tears through it, cutting the pieces down into chunks with a blade. The noisy, sickly slices divert Warren’s mulling, turning him to watch as the loki cuts through another piece. Nervous thoughts choke in his throat, adverting his glance before the look is returned.

T’viska looks to the blade he’s using – unintendedly… he’s using the half spira blade.

Pausing mid slice.

Warren continues to pick at the piece of flora nestled in his lap.

Feeling the emotions coil through the air and strain through the somatic link, T’viska sets down the pieces he was carving up. There’s a noted pause as he takes a step, glancing between the tenno and the floor before he solidifies his motions, squatting down in front of the teenager. Warren doesn’t make any motion of acknowledgement – and T’viska runs a hand over his horned crest and down over his nape, letting himself sigh the weight from his shoulders.

The warframe’s sight meets the dulled stare through tussled hair, his claws itching his shoulder.

“I…” he tries to start, eyespots narrowing, flaring in the strain of concerned hesitation. “I know… about how you’ve been cutting,” Warren visibly flinches. “Suuir told me…”

The tenno’s fingers hold firmly around the plant – T’viska can feel the tears beading beneath the overshadowing hair.

“It’s… hard to get acclimated to all of this. I know… and coming off the shit you went through with them just makes it harder… But it’s okay, and I’m not angry at you. I… just wish you told me how you felt, or that you felt comfortable enough to talk about it.”

Warren remains reclusive, quiet as he freezes on the spot.

“But I don’t expect you to…” T’viska bites his lip, looking down to where the half spira blade hangs between his fingers. “It’s okay if you don’t want to talk about it, or not just ready to yet.” His mouth opens to talk – interrupted as he bites himself quiet, uncertain. What else can he say? He leans off to one side, hoping to catch some resemblance of a response, anything he can parse as acknowledgement.

Yet, Warren remains silent, self-contained in frozen anxiety. His face twitching against the threats of tears – pleading them not to fall as he forces himself from lashing out, swallowing down the anger that swells in his throat that T’viska doesn’t know what he’s feeling. What mild relief that he was alive for a moment before the dread filled his emotional flask. Drowning it, suffocating it as he merely listens to the loki speak before him.

He only wishes to be left alone…

The warframe sighs, easing himself onto his knees to sit. “If it makes you feel comfortable… if it makes you feel safer, I’m going to give it back, alright…?”

Silence… an emotional pause.

“Y-yeah,” Warren croaks, tainted by the choking in his throat as he sniffs, hating his own weak voice.

“Okay,” whispers in return, comforting. Metal clicks as the half of spira blade lies upon the floor, pushed forward by golden claws. Stepping back, “earlier… when I mentioned you joining me in between missions when you aren’t busy… have you put any thought into it…?”

“Somewhat,” sniffs, reaching around for the spira blade.

“It’d… be just for communication between contract stints, give you some room to practice strengthen those abilities of yours,” he almost smiles… but it sours quickly. “If you wish.”

Warren keeps quiet, holding the blade and foliage between his chest and coiled legs.

“That’d… mean you’ll have to endure the chair again. If –“

“I can do it,” the tenno fumes, mouth in a brief snarl.

“Alright,” the loki smiles, slowly heaving himself to stand. “Whenever you feel comfortable enough to step into it… let Suuir know. He’ll let you know as soon as I’m in a hotzone.” Taking a glance over to where he had left the foliage he was carving up, he takes a moment to pause, thinking. “Cleaning all this up… is going to take some time. But it’s well worth it in the end, no matter what ever happens, whatever effort you put into it counts in the end. Even when you need to step away, Warren, take it easy… it takes a long time to get over the war…”

Warren watches as T’viska wanders back up to the higher level, possibly to fetch another blade he figures as he pulls himself out of the anxious coil. Letting his shoulders drop, letting his muscles relax even as stress still stings in his thoughts, the teenager dances the broken spira in front of him, glinting his reflection in the polished edge.

He can see his reflection… in a small flash of light he swears his right eye goes black.

Instead of a bright somatic blue, it’s dark, dark with a glaring white circle.

It’s gone the next second.


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -+- Kudos, sharing, and comments are encouraged! -+-
> 
> Tags will be updated over time.

Warren’s gloved thumb follows along the dulled edge of the half spira blade, moving its polished edge down into the notch he’s already made into the overgrowth he holds pinned between his knees. There is a moment to pause, to give his shoulder a roll and a mild squeeze before he presses the refurbished blade down into the organic matter with a mild wince and huff – it’s tougher than it looks. Auditory squeaks creep out from the organic matter made hardened by the shell infestation that make it sag, slipping between his slickened pants as he tries to divide it down to peels. Yanking the strip for a moment, Warren sets the blade down at his side facing into the dim medbay, maneuvering himself to hold the overgrowth body with one hand and the strip with the other. And then heaves, and pull, and twists until he finally pulls it free, releasing it as his shoulder muscles seize.

“Fuck,” he hisses, lying himself back against the door’s bulkhead frame, where it sits as the divide between the bright main hall and the still dirty medbay. Looking off to his one side, as his head rolls, he looks over the clearing he managed to make; the flora’s trimmed down, exposing the traces of infested growth that pulsates and groans along with the arboriform sighs. Where there sits the removed wall panels set off to a side, where the calcification sits in place where the infestation once tethered.

His eyes roll over to face him to the ceiling, staring past the infested growth that swells there… and his head thumps back against the inner seal with a sigh. So much still left to do…

The transponder slung over his ear chirps to life, singing a chime to draw his attention. “How’s the clean up going, kid?”

For a moment the tenno sits quiet, thoughts at a distance before he shrugs the ache from his shoulders, acknowledging the warframe on the other end of the coms. “Could be going better… most of that one portion is cleared up of overgrowth and got some of that matter out of the wall. Going to be a while until there’s nothing left in there…” He glances over at where the ‘plots’ sit empty, canisters that sit within the surface of the reservoir. Too infested to keep around – he had figured. He hears the filtration system kick in tuned by an anti-viral hiss. He hopes it kills off most of the growths…

“Well, you’ve made some progress and that’s all that matters,” he can hear the loki sigh on the other end. Jostling his gear.

Curiosity takes the forefront of his attention; his arms are exhausted, tossing the overgrowth away from him and into the grime. “What kinda mission do they got you for…?”

“Surveillance,” T’viska exhales – the shuffling of the rubico is nearly mute through the comslink; but focusing on it Warren can feel its weigh pressing against his chest. “There’s a bastard they’re having me tail once their ship gets back; got me elbow-deep in an outpost and its fucking frigid out here.”

“Guess it’ll be a bad time to ‘hop in’,” Warren sighs, lying his head into the crease of the door seal as his arms lie over his knees. Without anywhere else to look, he looks down himself with a frown; soaked in the floral gore, stuck with the slick slime that lingered on the infested matter. Leaning his legs against the other for a moment before pulling them away, his pant legs stick. He grunts; needing to rid himself of the disgust.

T’viska sighs on the other end, adjusting his gear, “not much is going on here… but its too hot to move around without a cloak. Too many cameras around, even on the infrared. Best to stay safe.”

“Yeah, I know,” the tenno grunts as he forces himself up onto his feet, stretching out his shoulders and the aching in his hands. Watching as cyan void mist ebbs around his fingers before drawing his hand into a fist – energy wisping between. “I’ll be going dark, get some rest and do some research.” He dances the energy between his fingers before it finally dissipates, gone into smoke. He wipes his hand on his jacket.

“Alright, take care up there. Estimation given is about… 50 hours, so I’ll be open to talk. Given that the target hasn’t arrived yet,” the warframe sighs.

Warren pulls the transponder from his ear.

He routes the short wire around back around the device as he kicks off his boots, abandoning them at the edge of the taped down region, kick them off into the wall as the medbay door finally slides itself shut. As he stuffs it into his pocket of his jacket, he catches sight that it hasn’t been spared of the biological mess, edged soaked with the bled sap and ill latex white.

All that leaves him is a sigh, shrugging it off as he wanders back into the residential quarters to rid himself of the sticky mess, dumping it into a makeshift bin beyond the door he’s designated for things that are to be cleaned later, either by hand or through the ship’s enigmatic systems. It’s not that Warren’s too lazy to carry them up as he pulls off his top, the upper layer of his clothing as he heaves an exhale. Beneath he’s still left in the bodysuit, the last buffer he still has from the worst of the flora’s mess; tossing the removed clothing into the bin with the jacket.

Another thing for him to do later… not that he really much minds; he sighs as he pulls on another top as the base of the steps, yanking himself through the sleeve before he pulls his head through – flinching as the fabric catches on his teethe before he frees himself. He rather have too much to do than not enough, a thought that remains as he walks over to stand before the observation view that projects pulto’s stunning vista, dotted with the light of Corpus cruisers and carriers. Patrol vessels whispering past.

Deep in Corpus controlled territory…

He motions to Suuir to pull the research papers into reach, his go-to when he’s not cleaning up, or when he’s studying ship diagrams. The view goes dark before him, immersing himself into the darkness aside from the reflection of his somatic sights and the glow of the snoozing kavats. Turning back, he can see them both curling up on the bed; they get more use out of it than he does – Warren smiles.

The holograms bloom before him and the mild dusty innards of the residential chamber, items still need to be sorted through. To be done later, he concludes as he gestures through the filings. But for now it’s back to the swamp of mystery, the diversion of the white flora that still haunts his consciousness.

What connection do they have to the void…?

 

A hand pries through Warren’s hair, pulling himself away from the sheets as he rolls himself over at last, digging up and through it as his eyes squeeze open, a groggy cloud sitting outside the clutch of his vision while his mind remains blank. Staring up at the ceiling, he can hear a kavat roll around further up the bed, a paw waps his face before he brushes it away with a tired grunt. Lying there, Warren stares beyond the ceiling as he pieces through his mind, fumbling with what he was last doing before he managed to fall asleep – mind thankfully blank of dreams. He forces himself up into a sit where he resides, legs hanging over the end of the bed as he digs his hands up over his exposed teeth and the furl of his hair; a grumble leaves him as he leans on his arm, head curled down into his arm.

Yanking himself from the draw of sleep, he looks back to where the datapad sits blank. With the flick of his hand over the surface it brings back what he was last looking at the corpus headline sat with superimposed tenno dialect granted by Suuir. The cephalon blips in at the side, ‘I’ve translated the remaining documents you’ve requested. Would you prefer them to the current literal?’

“I’d prefer to have them both,” Warren grunts, rubbing his aching spine. Slept wrong. “Keep them as is – I’ll look over them later.”

‘Of course,’ the polygons shuffle, pulling himself off the datapad’s connection.

Warren pauses, staring down over the corpus research paper, “and… thanks, Suuir.” He pulls a hand through his hair. “For, everything,” he whispers. The cephalon doesn’t resurface – the tenno doesn’t mind the lack of response as he’s already setting it away.

Looking up and gesturing for the cephalon to read his hand movements, it brings up the current mission duration on the holographic display – 100 hours since mission start, 40 hours since last communication with T’viska sunk deep within a Corpus stronghold. Another job, another collection of hours for Warren to endlessly entertain himself with scattered preoccupations; Warren picks up food wrappers he left behind the evening before, tossing them into a crate he scrawled with ‘garbage’. It’ll be a while till it can be offloaded… so he deals with it for now.

Pulling his arms into a stretch he grunts, “alright,” he affirms with himself, “back to clean up.”

He pulls off his top and tosses it onto the surface connecting the two landings together. It leaves his arms exposed to the cold air as he picks through the selection of gloves suited for dirty work, something that will protect his hands and wrists. It leaves his void scarring exposed – where it crawls along his entire left arm, where a twisting of light color distortion carries in a line from his right middle finger and up behind his shoulder.

Warren looks past them as he pulls on the gloves, securing them around his wrist. “Going to clean, Suuir, will need solvent canisters.” A hum through the system assures him of the cephalon’s confirmation as he picks through the bin of stained clothing, flipping the last round of plant removal so he can get to his jacket. It doesn’t take long for him to pick through into its pocket, wrapping the transponder around his ear and clipping it into his bodysuit’s collar. A clean glove finger taps it back on, “Dad, I’m checking in.” He reaches into the bin to pull out the clothing.

“Hey kid,” the loki exhales, “on the trail, so I’ll be going quiet. Should be getting back in a few hours, depending on how easy it’ll be to get out of here.”

“Alright,” Warren heaves the clothing up in bundles, clutching him against his chest as he turns to move to the shower recess off to the side of the residential quarters. He chucks them into the basin near the back before he walks back out, rounding to the ramp to fetch the foundry canisters.

 

T’viska heaves his rubico over his shoulder as his optical sensors follow the delegate’s correspodent’s arrival, walking back into the heavily armed cruiser that has been sitting on the far-end of the hanger for the past hour – fair enough to consider that last second preparations were being done. Something to stall last second negotiations, perhaps; not that he cares, nor for if their mobile escort was armed with the dreaded supras he’s been hearing about. His shoulder blade still aches as he goes over his plan, golden claws rubbing against it as he slips himself into his cloak, dropping himself down from his perch.

It’s with barely a whisper does he land, paws splaying over the smooth metal of a carrier pipe as he slides down, turning himself to grip onto a metal strut to slow his descent. Each moment is made smooth as he eases himself down to the level floor of the massive hanger, feeling the chill creep up his legs as he slips around a cart of high-grade parts, dancing between pallets left for onboarding into the carrier nearest to him.

From his hip, he eases out a spira blade, dancing it between his fingers as he stalks closer.

Suuir confirms his mark over his vision; suggesting to retreat in a few seconds to recast as the target walks back into the ship, yelling at someone inside.

He slides himself off to the side as a cart rolls past his path, his paws muffled on the metal as he slinks beneath the wing of another cruiser, stepping around the scattered baggage left beneath it and the attending security manager overseeing them.

 

Warren plunges his jacket into the bucket he’s had set aside in the water closet. Of course, it does nothing to affect the deep color stain that clings to the bottom, nor for the transfer stains from the rest of his clothing. Leaning up on his knees, the tenno turns the lighting in the shower to match the bright hallway sat at his back so he can see the stains better on the dark material. With a grunt he presses it down against the ceramic floor tiles, wringing out the water as he remains knelt between the shower and the hallway. A kavat paws at his side as he sits back, “go away, Cre,” he whispers, shoving his elbow into her general direction.

Moving back to the task at hand, he plucks a canister from the row at his side, pouring the contents over the jacket’s stains.

Just as quickly he seals the simple device with a flick of his wrist. It gets set back into place as he leans up on one knee, leaning against the wall as he sets it out of the way so he has the space to work. One of many cleaners he’s had requested the cephalon to retrieve from deep within the orbiter’s reserve storage.

 

T’viska’s cloak falters as he shadows into the darkness of a carrier – its ramp left open as a guard awaits at the base, attending to it as he leans on his knees and a busted up dera rifle. He watches the crewman as he initiates his invisibility again, his steps remaining light as he walks past; not without double checking that he was careful enough to not bother the bored crewman at his heels. A shrug of shoulders and a shuffle of the rifle gives him clear enough acknowledgement, turning back to the carrier and the collection of bodyguards that begin to gather between the ship and a personal transport.

‘Lead shareholder of the osprey project,’ Suuir traces above the head of the delegate, who peaks out from the gathering at the top of the ramp. They’re sat in a hoverchair – an expensive means to compensate for shriveled legs. Their correspondent stands at their side as they move, conversing with one another. ‘Scare tactic requested, and information retrieval,’ the cephalon reminds.

The warframe slinks himself around a group of mechanics staring up at a carrier – catching their untranslated conversation.

‘Reward; 140 thousand.’ Sits at the edge of the loki’s vision; his breath shaking.

One moment to make this count, his thoughts tremble as he eases himself over the personal transport – looking down as the delegate and correspondent whisper among themselves.

Suuir quietly translates; ‘have you tried sawgaw? It’s a delicacy from the Venusian colonies.’

The correspondent laughs, ‘I have not. That’s far too expensive for my tastes.’

 

Warren presses the peroxide for a second time into his jacket. His gloved fingers wring around the wet material, squeezing out the remnants as he looks between the lowest basin of the shower and the bucket sat off to the side. Releasing it, he grabs the bucket, setting it beside the drain before he flicks the plug.

And he pours out the bucket, a makeshift dump he can soak his clothing in shifts.

 

T’viska rolls his shoulders as he waits for the target to approach, preparing himself to the commotion ahead, for the firefight that awaits in his future. Grab and run; Grab and run; hammers in the back of his head.

‘Almost,’ he whispers to himself; semi-thankful they’re slow.

It gives him time to ready himself, raising his arm that’s armed with the spira blade.

His eyespots flare beneath his cloak, drawing in his breath.

 

Warren presses his jacket down into the water, grimacing as it runs black and red with the dried gore. Making a mental note to just get something that he can dispose of, not risk is small selection of clothing anymore. He lets it sit there, sitting back.

 

T’viska exhales, sights transfixed on the delegate, then the correspondent.

And throws.

It pierces the delegates thigh as he leaps into action, tackling and pulling the correspondent off his feet as the delegate screams in confused Plutian Corpus. The loki acts on instinct as the corpus flails in his grip, yanking them over his shoulders as the bodyguard remained confused, startled as the incapacitated delegate clutches his bleeding leg, shouting and alarming the entire hanger of the troubles.

“Jetttusey!” Screams behind him, then around him as he hurries to strike the correspondent, knocking them out against the ramp. He can see blood pour from their bare temple.

“Jetttusey!!” Becomes a chorus as the supras turn to his location; given away as the corpus remains slump in his grip, unconscious as T’viska fights to pull them over his shoulders as he breaks into a sprint and lungs back over the personal transport.

He needs to get somewhere safe – as supra chambers begin to spin, commands screaming behind him as his cloak flickers out.

A sitting duck, he curses. Keeping his coms on mute as he runs into the passage way into the core of the complex – his only solace as the weight over his shoulders keep him from climbing.

Around him, alarms begin to blare. The announcement screaming, “Atjaja tapppe sope! Ekpetsitape koypipey!”

 

Warren flushes the blood and oil tainted water down the drain, spraying the stubborn material with the shower hose as he stands inside. With all of it drained down, he picks up his jacket, holding it up to the light as he inspects for any damage or stubborn remains.

He smiles as he finds none; and sets it up on the hanger on the back of the closet shower. One down, two more to go – he smiles, humming to himself. Even as his shins mildly burn.

 

There’s a grunt as T’viska drops the correspondent down into the nook within a maintenance well, an area where his legs continue to ache with the sting of corpus fire. The wounds freshly heal themselves as he pulls out the capture device, pulling himself back into his cloak before he initiates.

The alarms screaming in his ear; terror caught in his throat.

 

Turning over to work on his pants next, Warren pulls over the canister of peroxide again. Balancing back over onto his knees, the teenager resumes his simple tune as he sets his pants out before him, prepping the shower to seal its drain once more. Carefully he pours the canister over half of the pants; it’s utterly soaked with the stuff, unsure if he can salvage it as well as he managed to save his jacket.

There’s just so much of it.

The soothes of his hum keeps him calm as he works, barely broken up as he flinches – as pain begins to speckle up his back.

 

T’viska is quick to tuck the fulfilled capture device at his side as he slips around a nearby resting carrier, leaning his shoulder against the scaffolding as his back stings with the trace of plasma rounds. It oozes over his skin even as he remains in his cloak – caught by guesstimate shots as the corpus was fizzled into mere data into his palm. The loki looks over the young corpus laid out around the corner, his throat torn out and eyes laid wide; he clutches over his shoulder with a hiss. “Suuir, direct me out of here,” he pants, swallowing down the pain swelling in his throat.

Fuck, does a projectile welder sting.

He waits; and swallows, staring up through his mind for the cephalon’s response, checking his energy level. Only a few casts of his cloak are left, his stomach aches.

“Suuir,” the warframe snarls, looking back behind him. Nervous, he steps back from the shouts.

No translation speaks in his vision from the cephalon.

“SUUIR.” T’viska shouts, “ANSWER ME.”

Nothing.

He’s all alone.

“Fuck,” T’viska snarls, biting himself back into his cloak.

If more blood is to be spilt before he gets out of here; then so be it.

 

Warren shakes off the itching that draws down his back, thankful for the easing heal that takes care of the discomfort as he dunks the pants down into the water for a first time. He holds it there, his humming ceased as he watches the sickly material that sticks to it.

Clots of the material eventually drift free of the material as he manipulates it, twisting and pulling it with a grunt. Still on the edge of deciding if its worth it or not; or to just toss it to Suuir to take care of. It and the ruins of his top.

He takes pause, considering to consult the cephalon before he continues.

Leaning back down, he gives it another go.

 

T’viska’s breath gasps as he corners himself up into the rafters, his bloody claws holding fierce around the metal as his paws pin themselves in place. Below he can see patrols of corpus armed to the teeth, dangerously quiet as a scrambus skates at their fringe, their weapons buzzing with nervous energy as they glance around them. Their coms-link continues to chatter as Suuir remains dark and despondent; it leaves the warframe to only pray that they don’t have motions sensors built in, nor heat sinks built into their visors.

Perhaps an inhibitor, a lockdown of cephalon signals aside from the local regulatory standard models? T’viska doesn’t know; all he knows is the caution in his steps, the fear gripping his chest.

He’s not been alone on a mission… for years.

He’s still not sure if the reward is worth it; but he needs it, for Warren.

Warren.

The warframe curses at himself for not remembering sooner, but bites back his impulse to call just yet. Once he’s out of harms way, safely held in some far-off corner he won’t burst into the teenager’s transponder out of breath – he doesn’t need the stress, he worries. He can surely get himself out of here without bothering him – he’s done it before.

Before he found Suuir...

He sprints past the hind end of a patrolling platoon, dodging around a stalker fusion moa.

He’s always hated those things, his mind mulls as he dances around sat idle containers.

But he’s done this all before; a thought that reminds himself as he glances back, feet moving in rhythm to keep his pace steady, wary of pursuit.

That was a hundred years ago – his feet skip him backwards – was it more? He can’t remember—

Warren screams, doubling over as his head cracks against the wall, the floor.

T’viska’s mouth twists into a snarl as his forearm breaks, tumbling and spinning as skin sheers against the metal, cut by the metal rail embedded into the floor as a personal transport squeals to a halt past him. His golden claws dig around his broken limb as his body comes to rest, sickly with his blood as his mind chases the phantom motions, trying to force himself back to his feet, to back up and away as he hears confused corpus speak from inside the cab. His two-toned paws fumble in the bath of spilt blood he finds himself, gasping and heaving, feeling as blood bubbles through his chest and gags – breath stolen by the swell of blood in his chest, rubs digging into his collapsing lung.

Warren grips his head and arm, stumbling himself away from the spilt peroxide as it stings his corrupted limb – the canister left abandoned on the pants as he cradles himself firm, gasping and heaving, swallowing down the knot in his breath that surge with the beat of his anxious heart. His brain scrambles through the motions, yanking himself out of the shower and back into the bright hallway.

Blood dribbles over the loki’s lip as he chokes back threatening blood, forcing himself onto his feet even as he gasps and heaves, feeling the shattered rib dance and wander, dragging every time he stems to breath. One hand eventually finds itself under his body, pushing himself so there is room for his aching legs, forcing them to MOVE as behind him the corpus exit their cab. His one arm – it dangles, flopping.

“Jettusey!” One yells.

Fuck…

“Fuck!” Warren shouts, trying to pull himself to his feet, leaning up against the wall as his stomach twists and turns, nauseous as he tries to find his balance. Somatic eyes float in agony as his legs wobble; the lights make them sting. He yanks the gloves off as he leans against the wall, a quaking hand fumbles to tap the transponder to transmit. “Dad, the fucks going on!”

“Can’t,” T’viska gasps, swallowing the threatening notion to vomit blood, stumbling himself finally onto his legs. “Can’t reach Suuir. Inhibitor,” he bites himself down at last into a cloak – his last one until he can fill his gut.

“Fuck,” the tenno curses, fist balling against the wall. “Need me in the chair, got it,” he growls, shuddering as his stomach churns.

And hurls.

“No, Warren, stay right the fuck there,” T’viska’s voice is dry, cracking as he can do nothing more to give into the suggestion of assistance. His stomach churns within his body, hissing as he holds his broken arm against his chest.

It’ll fuse back in place; but he’s running low.

Warren is quiet as he forces himself completely to stand, wiping his mouth. “No, hold on, I’m coming for you dad.” And even as his legs stumble, quaking in the transfer of pain hammering through his head, chest, arms, body, and legs, he forces himself to lurch to the other side of the hallway, not letting the threat of bruises dissuade him, nor the heat of pipes. To and fro he marches himself forward, shaking out the hesitation that stings inside his mind as he slumps over towards the transference chamber – pain overcoming fear.

The loki gasps and spits blood as he pulls himself around another corner, listening as the driver of the transport explain to a patrol group, the systematic whirl of the fusion moa sings in the background. He’s hit something, there’s a black blood trail – he can already feel the corpus breathing down his neck as he cradles his arm – feeling it crack beneath his fingers, shard pulling themselves back into place. He can feel his fingers again, tugging them against his opposing shoulder as the agony rights his nerves. It takes the last of his energy to correct it – nearly out of energy for one more cloak.

A moa warbles, stalking.

Warren yanks himself down into the cold interior of the somatic cradle, eyes screwing tight as the folds enclose themselves over him, entombing him as fear chokes. Behind he can feel the nervous connection coil around his neurons, ensnaring and drawing his stream of consciousness into strands, a web that pivots him outside his body, gasping as the loki’s arms become his own, their hasty breaths matching as Warren takes outright control of the wounded warframe.

At the edge of his thoughts, Suuir’s presence finally manifests. ‘Gate E4-2,’ he rattles off, infusing it into the internal directory, ‘other side of the ship, less secure.’

Their voices become one as they swell into a snarl, the teenager’s sheer will taking over the ebbs of agony that lies in the remains of a once shattered arm, the breakage of ribs, the scratches and bruises that paint the loki’s ivory and tan with maddened black and off-tone purple wine. T’viska’s consciousness slinks back as the tenno wrestles full control, pulling them forward through the hallway as the cloak shrinks away as a nullification field steals the remnants of energy, squeezing the emptiness in the sensory gut as they shrug off the traces that dig against their backs.

‘Suuir, lockdown,’ the teenager barks through, ‘lift it.’

The cephalon buzzes through their minds as the loki’s body vaults over a barrier, leaping on once tired legs up onto a second level as dera bolts nip at their heels. Suuir eases through Warren’s somatic connection to commune with the systems they run past, surging into it to yield it from the lockdown as energy lashes back at the crewmen that strike flesh – but their screams ring mute as the tenno just focuses on keeping momentum, carrying through them through the halls, sliding down beneath a pipe and skipping out of the range of a supra baring guard.

T’viska’s reserve surge empty as they continue to run – no cloak, no decoy to leave in their heels – but it rings as a nonissue if they keep running, following the cephalon’s surging waypoint. Step by step Warren tunes out the commotion around him, the words dancing across his vision go blurred ignored, the reining back of the startled warframe telling him to stop, calm down – all he listens to is the pounding in his chest.

The same feeling as back then, running, running away from nothing but danger, surrounded by enemies that provide more than follies between them and the objective – he leaps the warframe across two floors, rolling them down to where the two platforms meet.

He knows.

Knows what the Corpus do to warframes that fall into their possession.

He’s not going to let it happen – his mind stakes in repeat as the flashes of indepth reserves sting his mind as he races into the open hanger – he won’t let that happen to T’viska – he won’t let it happen to his dad as he spots the liset’s position on the platform – past the startled faces of civilian corpus; unarmed, startled and scared.

He bolts past them, hearing them shout as his back, the fire that trace over their back and over shoulder – yet he hears the civilians scream. A round lodging itself into an inspector that tries to get out of the warframe’s way – leaping over them as they clutch the blaze in their side.

He doesn’t turn.

It’s enough he doesn’t have to as he runs.

He pivots them into the safety of the cloaked liset – the connection goes dark.

 

Blood-soaked claws dig against the floor of the liset.

T’viska groans as he pulls himself up from the floor, a palm held against his aching skull as his sensors ring with void static, fuzzy and impartial as he forces himself up into a sit.

While his brain swarms with numb sensations, a churning of nerves to tumble, the loki has to hold his head to keep it from swaying, spinning as the darkness around him is stung with light. The external view blinds his optical sensors as he tries to look out towards the vessel’s pathing, legs aching beneath him as he crawls himself over to the pilot seat. Exhaustion chokes him as he falls back against the central column, looking back into the sullen innards of the liset.

“Suuir,” he grumbles, hand pulling over his head, looking down over the dried blood trail he left behind.

‘Present,’ the cephalon hushes in the corner of his vision.

“Mission status…?” He holds against his nape; looking down, his right arm is still busted, aching and swollen.

‘Complete; funds have been transferred already,’ the cephalon sits quietly in his sight, attentive.

The warframe sighs, a panic still stuck in his throat, “Warren…?” He swallows the choking in his voice, the dry cracking.

‘Unconscious… but safe,’ the cephalon responds, ‘he’s in the chair. I severed the link before it took its toll.’

“Thanks, Suuir,” the loki whispers as he tries again to pull himself into the pilot seat, exhaling harsh as he finally finds himself in its comfort.

Suuir sits quiet.

T’viska stares out into the space, sights drifting up towards the distance between the orbiter and the liset.

He leans onto his left arm, cradling beneath a horn. “Damnit…”

Suuir finally blips himself away, to tend with the mess still left as best he can.

T’viska punches the wall – well dented with aggression.

 

Heaving himself back up the ramp, T’viska ignores the traces of blood he leaves behind.

The loki’s steps are slow as he makes his way up the ramp, calm and retained as he works himself over to the foundry as he makes a simple request – for something to drink, something to eat, as he holds his partly healed fractured arm against his stomach. His hip leans against it as he waits, thoughts softened as he mulls over earlier events – being blindsided like that… he should’ve known. He saw the fucking tracks.

He downs the slurry; and bites into the canister as his healing process resumes.

Bones mend themselves into rightful place, muscles and nerves righting themselves and reforming bonds once broken. His lungs right themselves as he crunches the canister, material constituted into its base composition, energy in simplest terms as he rights himself to stand. A loud crunching that pervades the only sound – the shower long turned off by Suuir.

Silence resounds poignant as he stalks down to the lower floor, kneeling down and collecting the remains of the mess that sits from the shower and spills out into the hall. Canisters sit half used or completely empty in the corner, pants and shirt left crumpled over the drain by water now gone. Blood and foliage cling to the material as he picks them up – dry with the hint of overwhelming peroxide evacuated by the scramble. The mess that clings to it goes ignored as he walks back to the foundry, shuttling it down into the system to clean or dispose of; they can always get new clothes.

The canisters? He stuffs back into the system. The jacket he drapes over the surface between the two portions of the residential quarters.

He strips himself of the wraps around his forearms, letting the orbiter tend to them as he relinquishes himself of the rags left behind on his person – the capture device he shuffles to Suuir to deliver the ‘payload’.

T’viska presses the door close to close on the shower stall.

Letting his sensors drift closed as hot water stings at his remaining, slowly healing injuries.

Eyespots scrunch in the low light, bleeding their glow in his shadow.

“Should’ve been fucking careful,” he growls to himself, yanking a hand back over his crest as water drips over his sight. Leaning against the wall he watches the droplets sink down along his twined horns, shoulders bared up into the scalding pour.

Even as he flinches; bare measure exposed to water, he remains.

“Should’ve been careful…” he whispers, arms coiling and crossing, leaning up against the wall.

Thoughts strain.

He pats himself dry before the foundry unit, pulling on a fresh pair of leggings to cover his scarring laid there. A shirt, he pulls over the marring that sits over his stomach and chest; wounds old and new.

It’s in silence he stands before the door into the transference chamber, paws bordering over the dry drops of blood that mark the teenager’s path from the shower to the chair he now languishes in.

Alone.

“Suuir,” his voice is low, chilled. The door slips open before him, parting the way into the sullen room left abandoned aside from the glow of the coiling system behind the chair, the arboriforms that wound themselves up and into the back of the chair where he’s only able to spot the tenno’s feet sticking out – full-leg pants keeping them from the coarse chill. It’s only as he needs do the fold drop open, baring the unconscious teenager.

Leaning up against the somatic cradle, T’viska hooks his claws between Warren’s bodysuit and his shoulders to ease him free, “come on, kid.” He hoists the teenager up from the chair, pulling him one way then the other as his hands grab around his armpits to pull the tenno’s unconscious body against his own. It’s easy for him to bare the teenager’s weight as he shuffles him, an arm scooping around his back as the other holds beneath his rear; relieved to hear the sleeping breaths. “Let’s get you to bed,” he whispers as he forces himself up to stand, cradling his son. “Suuir, any lasting damage…?”

‘Thankfully, no,’ the cephalon sits at the edge of his vision. ‘Somatic overload… he should recover soon.’

Glancing over to the sleeping features pressing into his shoulders, where sweat matted hair barely obscures the course tightening of pain as restless hands dig against his shirt… T’viska’s shoulders droop, juggling the teenager to affirm his grip before he leaves the transference chamber behind.

Tears dampen into his shoulder, daggers carving through his throat.

T’viska is careful as he eases the teenager back onto the bed, letting the tenno’s knees anchor him against the edge of the bed as he tries to lie the restless sobs down against the overthrown sheets; careful as his claws pull exhausted fingers free from his shirt, ones that pull back against the aggressive overflow of emotions that dig through the empathetic link. One leg kneels softly against the bed, letting him drift over as he tries to settle the teenager back to bed – to comfort – even as terrified hands pull against his wrist, fumbling and begging as the motions carve through his chest every time he tries to settle them back.

“Dad,” strikes T’viska cold.

Tired somatic eyes drift open; fingers curling into the warframe’s arm still unbound by arm wraps. Muscles bare.

“Was I really worth it,” eyes linger away towards the wall, stung red by tears, “for those scars.”

“Yes, Warren” T’viska whispers, letting his arm be taken in by anxious palms as he moves himself over to sit beside the coiling teen. “You are worth it; without you or Suuir I don’t think I would’ve made it out of there.”

Warren remains quiet as he clings to the warframe’s arm, sullen before he rolls himself over to the side and away from the expanse of the room. As the outside observation looks over the eclipsing Pluto, he curls himself up towards the wall with the gold clawed palm in tow, clinging to it. T’viska allows it, pushing himself back upon the bed as he throws the covers over Warren.

He opens his mouth to say something… anything… before his sentence is drawn mute, fallen silent as his shoulders drop; even as the teenager presses himself down into the cushions, bury himself within the covers as he still holds onto the loki’s arm. But there’s still the muffling of chest churning sniffs and squeaking snurks, a coughing that tries its best to be quiet; making itself worse until they’re full blown.

To which T’viska pulls his arm free… rubbing the tenno’s back in the same comforting motion. “Let it all out,” he whispers, reassuring, “just let it all out kid.” Hushes whisper as he rubs the trembling shoulders, the curling spine, slow and gentle as he looks out through the observation pane at the far end of the room.

“I was…” muffles into the sheets, “scaredandIdidn’t…” shudders into a coughing fit.

T’viska hushes softly, “that’s alright, I know… I was too.” He continues to look out over the quiet horizon, watching as the bulk of a corpus ship begins to drift into view. Features narrowed, he gestures to Suuir to turn it off, to give them the space of serenity and comfort tones. “Thank you, Warren,” he breathes, “for coming for me.”

Sniffs are all that answer.

Silence drives agony through T’viska’s chest as he stares blankly to the repeating video playing mute, his hand eventually falling still as it rests on the teenager’s side. Hoping he’ll fall asleep… mentally begging as the hitched breaths and sniffing coughs continue.

“D-,” he pauses, glancing down to where the teenager lies beneath the covers. “Don’t chase the pain… it’s okay,” his words hitched, clawed and breaking as the emotions swell through the somatic link. “You’ve been fighting… against the stream,” he begins his hum, voice drawn soft. “Feel the pain… it’s okay,” he exhales, “you’ve made it through another day…” He continues his old age lullaby, tuning and adjusting in the low-droning of the orbiter’s systems that course and hum beneath them, arm remaining rested on Warren’s side; reassurance.

Over and over, the loki repeats the soft song, remaining at Warren’s side as he eventually cries out the last of his exhaustion.

And finally falls asleep.

Leaning onto his knees, hands pulling up around his horns, the warframe exhales. “What do I do…”


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -+- Kudos, sharing, and comments are encouraged! -+-
> 
> Tags will be updated over time.

Golden claws click silently against the dull scratched surface of the rubico; holding it firm as the underside comes to rest against an outstretched leg that’s crooked into position as the warframe sits wedged between the wells of grineer rafters. T’viska’s grip remains firm as he rests his features against the downward angled rifle, glaring through the sights to the transport carrier sat against bulky chocks – still checking in, he rationalizes.

Pulling himself back with a sigh, the warframe settles himself into standby observation as his grip on the rifle goes lax. Watching as the growing collection of guards wander and wait below the loki breathes with relative ease as it sits so far above them – his lungs well mended in the relatively short time it took for him to make a full recovery – he rolls his shoulders with an exhausted sigh – a few hours was all it took.

He takes the rifle firmly into his grasp, staring through the sight as the grineer converse among themselves. Thankful he was able to catch a job so low stress on such short notice.

Even though his body healed in a few waiting hours… it took him several more until he felt secure enough to leave the teenager alone.

“Suuir,” he calls through the coms-link, “how’s he doing.” His voice remains low and calm; dismissive of the worry that clings in the back of his mind, stung with the dreaded sigh that echoes there. The last thing he’s heard from the tenno before he left once again.

It takes a moment for the cephalon to check in at the edge of his vision.

‘He’s doing…fine,’ the polygons slowly turn in thought, ‘he’s back to cleaning up the medbay. So there’s no lasting obvious somatic damages; his vitals are normal, no mentions of faulty wavelengths…’

T’viska remains quiet, concerned squeezing his brows. The loki houses his head against the rubico’s scope as activity flutters below, the ramp easing downwards with a metallic grind he can barely tune to in the commotion of the hanger. Pockets of false merriment pervades his concentration as he watches crates be unloaded, watching them through the sniper’s scope. It just… doesn’t feel right, he sighs, picking out the codes etched into the tarps over the crates the grineer pull from the transport.

‘You’re still concerned…’

“Yeah.” The loki glances back to the forefront of his vision as the cephalon pulls up the ship’s manifest – lifted from the tapped systems sat below them in the control tower, T’viska searches for a specific inventory code. The one marked as ‘high priority’ for his client; a paranoid corpus wanting to know his shipment securely reaches its location. “It’s… not normal for him to recover so fast, you know?”

The cephalon takes a pause, ‘I wouldn’t know, T’viska.’

One to one, the loki makes a match of the inventory’s location on the hanger floor – Suuir highlights it in his peripherals. As he rolls the sniper over his shoulders to ease it into a diminished holster, the warframe crawls himself through the rafters for a better view of the cargo below. “I’ve told you about… what he went through, haven’t I, Suuir?”

“I barely remember your specific narcotic rambles,’ the cephalon lingers at the edge of his vision, ‘but, yes, I might.’

Once T’viska drops down to the hanger floor and initiates his cloak, his steps resound mute amongst the rattle of grineer metal and cloth. “I just… I worry he might regress back to that. You heard him, haven’t you? Once I pulled him out of the somatic cradle,” he whispers, slipping between the crates sat at the base of the transport carrier’s ramp – a quick confirmation is all he needs to satisfy the contractor that the shipment is safe. The warframe goes silent as he makes one last audit of the container, giving the cephalon time to snap the crate’s serial and shipment code, comparing and hitching them together for the confirmation send off.

‘Might be a few before they answer and send payment.’

T’viska nods, removing himself from the dense hanger platform.

As he watches over from above with the cephalon’s targeting reticule sat around the container, his claws pull back over his helm with a sigh, leaning against a rafter strut. “When he asked… if he was worth it…” he pauses, pulling his arm down to look over the wrapping encasing his forearms, “It… reminded me of back then, during the war when he was stuck in those damn things.”

‘How long did he spend in them…?’

“As long as he was needed… before me, it was until he got pulled out, or when the warframe he was tethered to died. Over and over again… the poor kid,” T’viska grips his arm as he leans his back against the cold metal, crossing them with a mild snarl. “If he’s relapsing… he needs someone there with him, just in case. He can’t just be alone.”

‘He’s doing fine, T’viska,’ the cephalon calls back, ‘as far as I’m concerned, he’s not doing undue harm to the ship, nor himself – he’s focused.’

“He’s harmed himself before – what’s to stop him from doing it again, cephalon?” T’viska snaps back, “surely, not you.” The polygonal shapes freeze in their orbits for a moment, then sits placid and stern… a stalemate cemented as the cephalon closes the connection. T’viska turns his attention down to where he awaits the final confirmation, beneath where the cephalon once resided.

He sits alone, left beneath the dark of the ceiling as he switches his lean.

When it does eventually appear, it deposits directly into the orbiter’s vault to the tune of nine thousand credits, a measly pittance in the swarm of contracts worth hundreds of thousands – it’s just enough to help them scrape by. Seeking into the orbiter’s vault T’viska elbows himself off the strut, relief drifting through him as he reads off the 205 thousand that sits there; enough to depress the stress that chokes him as his thoughts flare back to their next move – the next job lined up. Where the larger sums are snapped up before it can even be rung as a possibility, the jobs lost in a millisecond as another cephalon picked it up, the faint moments he was desperate and caught sight of easy personnel capture contracts that slipped from his list.

Painful moments of sitting in pain, watching and hoping for an easy contract that will linger long enough he could select them and secure the contract. In the darkest time before he had Suuir to relay them, picking them while he was away on assignment and negotiating the prices.

And now the cephalon remains quiet, not responding to his contract inquests.

A sting of silence that pervades as he straps himself into the liset’s pilot seat, as he takes the long dead silent ride back to where the orbiter remains in its void cloak. Claws massage against his temple.

What is he to do…?

It questions in the back of his mind as he collects his gear to check before his next contract, feeling as the orbiter shifts its course to the next location deep into dead space. All he can recall is it’s a retrieval – for what he cannot remember as he sets the rubico out on the workbench, passing by as he moves to the medbay.

Leaning up against the bulkhead, T’viska watches as the teenager cuts into the infested matter that once buried itself into the wall panels. In the low light the spira blade glints, reflecting the low red-tone light cast off by the infested boils that still entangle around the intensive care cot that sits in the far end of the room. Stood in silence, he observes with halted breath. Taking a moment to pick through his words and plans – there’s still a ways until they make it to the next relay station, at least two more jobs sat lined up in the queue; knowing how the cephalon works he might need to leave sooner than later, always on the move.

His hand raises for a moment, edging towards the metal ridge then pauses.

Golden knuckles knock, “hey kid,” he keeps his voice low, and gentle. “How’s it going?” he questions lightly.

The teenager turns his head up over to where the warframe stands, eyes held in half-exhausted lids and glowing with somatic traces – inherent to the underlying void corruption and the result of Orokin tampering. He turns back to the task at hand, grip tightened and restrained, focused. As focused as he can remain as the loki remains within the room, as paws step around the scattered flora remnants and the canisters encumbered with the infestation.

“I’ll clean these up for you,” the loki whispers as he crouches a few steps from the tenno, picking up an armful of the canisters, “you’re doing a good job.” He stems a smile; before looking over to where the teenager sits with a flinch, reserved to the interest at hand.

Clean up the mess, set it right…

Warren’s eyes follow as the warframe departs the medbay, letting himself completely exhale a breath he had neglected to acknowledge being held in nervousness. Buried beneath his gloves, ones cut by clumsy spira blade slices, his skin remains unblemished even as the pain remains in their steed. A hurt the hides as well as his silence; as agony coils in his throat and bites back as he looks over strip of malignant flesh scraped free.

Brows furrow; he yanks it free.

The teenager keeps with the motions as he scrubs the last of the sickly flesh structures from the inner panel, dropping the scrub into a box as he pushes himself up. A huff breathes through him as his hands grip against his knees, holding still as his head swarms and spins. ‘Another one done,’ he relays to himself, pushing himself up to stand, stumbling and anchoring himself against the wall. A hiss leaves him as he struggles back to stand on his own, wavering and wobbling until the world stops spinning – hearing the ship’s systems whirl before his hand leaves the wall.

“Damnit,” he whispers, kneeling down and picking up the panel.

He steps over the scattered canisters stuffed with the spilt infested gore, his steps light and careful as he hoists the panel out into the hallway. Setting it down he dismisses the loki’s returning presence, keeping his eyes adverted.

“It’s looking good in here,” the loki calls back, the canisters clicking against one another as they’re set off to the side of the ridge above the reservoir tank. “You’ve been busy,” he looks over, following the teenager as he returns back to where he was working. Scant remnants of the scrapings remain on top of the thriving tank below – the thick panes beneath their feet humming with their gore-soaked steps. He looks over from where Warren once started to where he is now, a little over halfway done, watching as the teenager kneels beside the intensive care cot.

His mouth drawing a line, unable to figure his words.

Warren reaches back behind the quiet cot, feeling with his ruined gloves for the arboriform tether that attaches it to the ship – digits running over the infestation with a sigh. Pulling his hand out, he looks over the goo that sticks; index and thumb test the viscosity before he turns, walking around T’viska.

Unacknowledged.

He watches the teenager pick through the tools on hand, eyes catching to where the spira blade sat where he last left it. An echo of a pause that T’viska can feel inside his end of the connection. Hesitation.

He can see the teenager tempt to turn his head, watch as Warren sits still, and nervous.

Unmoving.

T’viska picks up a remnant from the floor as he kneels, jostling a canister in his other hand, “Suuir’s heading us to my next assignment,” he pauses, dropping the item inside before he picks up another trace. Red ill sticking to his metallic fingers. “He hasn’t given me the objectives just yet, but it’ll… probably be gone for a little while longer, only have one or two still left,” he sighs, filling the canister with the infested gore. “Then, after that, we’ll be swinging by a relay for a bit. So, you can have some time outside the ship, stretch your legs and all,” he glances over to Warren.

He hasn’t moved, fiddling with a scraping tool.

And silence takes place of conversation.

T’viska keeps his gaze averted, picking up the mess into another canister. “If there’s anything you need, or anything that catches your eye, you can tell Suuir. He can see if there’s anything on the relay like it when we get there, or anything at all.” He gives a disgusted grunt as lax muscle-fat slops from his grip, plopping into the canister around the juts of grown cartilage and leather coating.

Still, the teenager remains in place.

His hand wipes against the canister’s side, the best attempt he can make of ridding it of filth.

Warren remains nonverbal as his thumb kneads against the surface of the chisel, his sight drifting over to the floor and through to the reservoir below. A sigh drifts through bitten lips as he yanks his nerves calm, tension keeping him frozen in place. Unwanted fright, flinching as the warframe collects more of the ill filling canisters.

Watching after the loki’s back as he leaves again.

Pushing himself up from his knees, Warren picks the spira blade from the floor and tucks it safely into the notch between the tools in the utility bag he has wrapped with discarded cloths, a buffer from the flora gore that surrounds him as he moves back behind the intensive care cot. Behind he fiddles with the connectors, digging the splaying tool against the rifts between the leather flesh exterior. One hand holding it firm, he pushes with his other hand as he leans back, pinning himself between the fasteners and the infested growth at his back.

Gore sticks against his bare shoulders as he wedges himself in place, legs kicking up and knees securing himself in place with the machinery’s legs. There he wedges the carver deep into the material, whittling it down into chunks he can pull free even as sap-dense matter seeps against his clothing, tossing them off to the side. Intent on his current task, he doesn’t hear the warframe return to the medbay, nor the words being spoken over to him as bits and pieces are removed from the floor outside of Warren’s reach.

As he fails to pull a portion free, he grunts, rubbing his arm across his forehead before he pushes himself back behind it. Reaching down beneath where he carved flesh free to yank the rotten arboriform connection.

He flinches as claws click above him, hand snapping back and smacking against the wounded infestation.

“Oh, sorry,” T’viska pulls back from leaning over the side, “I…” he sighs, feeling the minor transmitted ache on his own hand, “what’cha working on back there?” he leans over, looking the best he can at the carving work.

Massaging his knocked knuckles, Warren looks over to where the connection should be solid in the back of the cot. It’s function still escapes him as his thoughts tumble over one another, staring over the deep greying tissue that drops there, were the infestation merges and festers. Behind here, the worse of the smells, turning his head over to breath the sterile air. “Connection… it’s rotten.” Is all he can manage, a coil wriggling in the nerves of his neck, choking for now reason he can discern.

“Oh,” T’viska keeps his voice low, “I’ll leave you to work on it then, kid. You’ve done a really good job with this place,” he pats the teenager’s shoulder, “Be sure to get some rest when you need to, alright?” He scans through his vision, the orbiter en route in a few minutes, “I’ll be back later, and I’ll help clean this place up a bit, how’s that sound?”

The teenager’s mouth clamps shut, sight moving between where the warframe leans over the machine and the back where he’s gotten himself wedged into place. Silence stains, but he does nod, even as his sights advert.

A small smile creeps across the loki’s face, but it doesn’t last. It’s drowned down by the reluctance in the tenno’s motions, the questioning and uncertain hands as he tries to make himself small, to hide behind the cot.

Adverting himself, T’viska pulls himself away.

As he steps away his paws squish through the illing matter that covers the glass and the platform that secures it all in place. Beneath the swatches of deep red and ails of black blues, he can barely catch a glimpse of the filter feeders that reside beneath the surface glow. The small wiggling fries silver and gold glint in the light from the quartering beams that divide the areas as he steps up to the main platform, a hand holding against the open doorway. He gives one last glance over his shoulder, watching as Warren continues to pull matter from behind the cot, yanking and throwing the grotesque ribbons of flesh and nerve grey arboriforms.

“Please don’t hate me,” he whispers between his teeth.

Departing back to the workbench, he tries to ping Suuir again to confirm mission details – expecting to make an apology of some form.

 

The craft shudders beneath them as the ramp snaps shut.

In the low glow of the cockpit, T’viska’s claws click against the switches, reaching up and over the dash that separates them from the sloped glass as he uncaps the holograph receiver component. Sprung to life, it centers around a simulation of the liset’s positioning, detailing the obstacles that sits around them as his hand draws back to the steering column. As he pings Suuir through his internal coms he takes a glance over to where the teenager sits in the copilot seat, holding a bag squarely in his lap.

Looking back over the holograph and the external display monitor before them, T’viska eases the ship into a slow ascent, careful to not jerk the stirring column even as something flickers by over the chassis in the holograph. Still waiting for the cephalon’s acknowledgments, he guides it to lift high above the platform, making room for another that parks itself skewed. Disengaging the holographic display, through the click of a thumb over a toggle, he relies on visual confirmation to ease them out of the densely populated space, a screen displaying the nearby responders as the liset slips into its void mask – surfing through the dark sky.

Once Suuir makes his presence known, ensnaring he liset to follow the correct course to board the orbiter, T’viska looks to Warren. “So, how was it?” he asks, letting his hands fall from the steering column. Internally he’s making plans for the supplies that sit in the sides of the vessel behind them, casings of pistol and rifle ammo sat in heavy crates. A brand new euphona sits on his hip as he shuffles in the seat, arms sat in a relaxed cross.

Warren looks over to the warframe for a moment, caught in thought. “It was… fine,” the teenager looks back to the consoles in front of him, a mirror of the ones that sit in front of the warframe. His hands pull around the fabric bag that sits settled on his lap, the items inside crumpling in their wrapping. Pulling himself close, his knees stuff another set of bags against the underside of the seat – clothing both casual and more suitable than the messed outfit he currently sits in; it feels too formal of him, reminds too much of a single selection among the somatic cradle.

After glancing over to where Warren holds himself reserved, T’viska turns himself back to his inner logic systems, parsing over a list of missions curated by Suuir. “Cephalon already got me a list of contracts while we were gone, seems the area’s teeming with them…” he mumbles, optical sensors picking through his own manifest of missions, merging them with those passed onto him by the orbiter cephalon. Captures, sabotages, contract exterminations of rival colonies to deliver a brute force message… he parses through for the high priorities, setting the ones that take the least amount of commitment last for now.

Some of the contractors on his personal list remain obscured by the central cephalons that host the nearby weave branch that sits within the gut of the relay they’re leaving behind, but as he mixes his list with Suuir’s he can sort out the duplicates. The berth of open contracts relieves him… in the sense that he doesn’t have to barter on the mercenary trade floors. Far too physically frail to force contract work when there’s already enough brutish, cocky warframes looking for payment.

Even then, he’s just glad to be able to walk around somewhere safe on occasion, where he doesn’t have to worry about there being a target painted on his back. But it hadn’t rid him of his reservations tied to leaving the tenno alone while he was securing the euphona that sits heavily at his hip.

The ship jolts as it hitches itself into the docking cradle.

It rocks them as it eases itself into the orbiter’s hanger, both sat quiet and patient as the cephalon maneuvers it into place. Once it finally falls still, the ramp easing open behind them, T’viska sighs, shoulders pushing him up from the pilot seat. “Well, we’re here,” he announces as he stands, stalking back to collect the crates of ammunition as the ramp sits open to the mist-hummed walkway, the engines shutting down around them.

As the warframe carries a crate down the ramp to the intake station, Warren shuffles inside the co-pilot seat to sit straight, pulling an arm through the handle loop of the bag sat on his lap. As he forces himself up to his feet, he shrugs it up to rest against his body and holds it there as his other hand picks through the handles of the other bags. Four in all, he heaves to stand. He makes his way down the ramp, leaning against a wall at the base of the incline that leads into the life support chamber above them – and drops the bag full of clothing at his ankle with a sigh. Back and forth, he watches as the loki transports the ammo crates between the cruiser and the orbiter’s intake station; where the cephalon consolidates them into the storage inventory to expend as needed.

Attention turned to the bag slung over his shoulder, the tenno digs into it, picking through for a snack.

Seven heavy cases later, T’viska drops the last heavy casing of ammunition down into range of the intake function. He leans onto the platform for a moment, arms stinging from the load with his shoulders poised as his head drops, easing a slow sigh. “I’m going to be heading off,” he keeps there, pausing before looking over to the tenno – his hand still riffling around inside his bag. No pause, he didn’t hear him. “Warren,” he tries again, his voice softened with hesitation – he’s only just got back.

The teenager’s head snaps up; confused but says nothing.

Leaning on his arms, T’viska shoulders hunch again before he pushes himself to stand. “Let’s go ahead, and take things topside, get you settled in,” walking over, he picks up the bags at Warren’s side – two in each golden grip. “There’s a lot of open contracts around here, and I want to take advantage of them before they start drying up.” He speaks calmly, walking over to where the incline begins before pausing, looking back to the watching tenno.

Warren peels himself form the wall, holding himself reserved in his adopted father’s presence.

They both remain quiet as they walk back through the living portion of the orbiter, the tenno trailing after the warframe until they reach the residential quarters – where T’viska drops the bag against the cushioned bench with an exhausted grunt. Warren moves to drop himself onto the bed, holding his bag close as his other hand brushes the grumpy tan and white kavat’s legs out of the way.

“I’ll get the rest of the things up here,” the warframe sighs, “you’ll be on your own for a while – all the jobs seem to be in the same range, so I’ll be hitting them all before I return.” He presses a fist against his back, knuckles kneading an aching muscle.

“Okay,” Warren’s voice remains low, keeping to himself as he sits with his arms clutching around the bag, staring off towards the screen on the other end of the room.

A pause hangs in the air, the ambient hum of machinery takes its place.

T’viska brushes away the preoccupation of future payments from his optical sensors, sitting himself down beside the teenager and wrapping an arm around his shoulder. “You’ve got a lot on your mind, don’t ya,” he whispers, sympathetically rubbing his arm.

The somatic link twines, hesitation sharing between them.

“I –,” Warren’s hands curl into the bag, looking down to the ground, “I don’t know what’s wrong with me.” He strains to keep from breaking, thoughts racing and churning in his mind over and over.

“Was it overwhelming…?” T’viska asks, letting his hand drop as shoulders try and shake free.

“I – Yeah, maybe,” the teenager looks to the side, away from where the warframe sits. “There was just… too many people around and the commotion and…” he pauses. “I don’t know,” his hands squeeze.

Pulling his arms back onto his lap, T’viska leans against his arms. “That’s okay, not everyone is comfortable in crowded spaces,” he tries to smile, his shoulders dropping back. “I don’t want to force you into anything you’re not ready for yet – I’ll ask you first next time, alright?”

They sit in the moment, a pause before the tenno slowly nods.

Warren sitting there still as he picks through his thoughts. “I… I didn’t mind it, it’s just… there was a lot of people and that still makes me nervous.”

T’viska slowly nods; a silent acknowledgement of the Zariman and of the war.

“I… I did meet someone like me…”

“Did they say anything to you?” T’viska glances over, concern hitching his tone; well aware of those Lotus-aligned.

“He was… nice, he wanted to be my friend,” excitement tints the tenno’s tone as he pulls away from his nervous architecture stare to look over at the loki; but the stern, flat line drawn across the warframe’s face makes his tempting smile drop, turning away.

“Just… be careful, okay?” T’viska keeps his voice low and softened.

Warren sighs, squeezing the bag against himself. “I know.”

They sit in silence…

T’viska forces himself up to his feet with a grunt, “well… I’ll be off,” he sighs, “take it easy while I’m gone, enjoy yourself a little bit – Suuir’s nuking the medbay to get rid of the last of the infestation.”

Warren nods, still keeping to himself as a hand drifts over to thumb over Crenshaw’s head.

No departing goodbye – T’viska relegates himself to that as he leaves.

As he watches after the warframe’s back, Warren finally lets himself relax as the door slides shut. His muscles and grip slouch as he exhales, falling back onto the mattress. He lies there as Rhubarb fiddles her legs out from under him – pulling them out before they resettle on top as her tail smacks against Crenshaw’s face and the teenager’s hand.

Staring up at the ceiling, his hands manipulate the case boxes in idle occupation.

Uncertain what to do.

It takes a while before he can pull himself up from the bed, setting the bag of food items off onto one of the empty shelves before he turns to the ones filled with clothing he had picked out on the relay. One by one, he undoes the minimal packaging that kept them bound together, setting them onto the ottoman as he frees them from their binds. It only preoccupies him for so long – cleaning up the mess they leave behind, storing them away for when he does need them.

Restless. He wanders out into the open cold of the hallways that make the rest of the living space.

Fingers crooked under the edge of the workbench; he leans up against it and stares over the old lato that sits there unused, mostly disassembled and strewn shoved over to a corner. He rocks on his arms as he stares at where its been left abandoned, thinking to himself as his brows squeeze in attempting concentration. Shuffling onto one arm he drags the pile over to the center, picking through it unfettered as he begins to place the components together on the surface. Setting them into a layout where he thinks the parts would fit together.

When he’s done – a countless amount of time later, he drops down to his crossed arms. Contemplating as he leans against it, his head resting on his arms. Thoughts turning to the echoes of exhilaration… of being in a combat zone where his nervousness and hesitation are cast aside.

A portion of him misses it… directed towards goals.

The other does not.

He pushes himself up.

Warren’s mindless wandering ends as he drops himself down onto the cushioned bench, hiking his boots up onto the ottoman as he holds the datapad on his lap. Silently he gestures for the hologram to display information usually tied to the navigation systems, letting the positional data dance before the external camera view that makes the wall. Radio channels ping around the orbiter’s location, tapping into them silently as it remains with Suuir’s mission protocols.

Settled with just browsing through the systems log, he pulls up the hood of his coat, shrugging himself down into a comfortable browsing position.

He scrolls through the locational data, the old alerts that are muted into the orbiter’s internal systems, the slightest shift in the engine thrusts and the angles of the massive shells that direct the ship into its intended direction. From there he picks through to the allotment of the hanger below him, the space it has room for and where the liset had made small faults that are noted whenever it docks and depart – he forces himself to ignore it. Needing nothing but to rest.

As he thumbs through the alerts again, far down the list of historic ones the orbiter passed by, he spots a scrambled signal with an urgency marker. He clicks it.

“Assis-STANCE requested. S.O.S. System emerGENCY-CY,” a cephalons recording squawks, their prism encrusted with infested growths. “HABItation-ON system, OFFL-FLINE,” it creaks; Warren flinches as it begins to repeat, turning more erratic until it finally ends – signal out of reach at the time it was captured.

Anxious, he flips back to where it was initially captured in the radio scanner; he freezes – 78 hours ago.

Not too long ago – his head darts up to the hologram. One hand raised he closes the external background view after a brief confirmation, a single gesture that grants him access to manipulate the scene. With the flick of two fingers he casts the frequency’s datapoints into the navigation system from the datapad, its location displayed as the ship’s systems recall back to their approximate location within the overall vastness of the origin system. The locational data comes easy after that, moving the center point back to when the signal was initially encountered – and when the orbiter was when it cut out. A held open palm directs the holographic display, giving the approximate attitude direction from where they were before.

And a comparison is made automatically between then and now, his shoulders slouch.

Not too far away… his palm zooms the view out, but nowhere close either; his lips press. As the view lingers there, displaying the 1.09 billion meters, his hand fumbles down to reach for the transponder in his pocket before he stuffs it against his side. Shoulders press against the side of his head as Warren stares over the distance again – and where the cephalon’s systems categorize the regional combat zones.

Sat in silence he only stares. Hands digging against his arms in thought.

‘Someone could be in trouble,’ he presses his mouth in thought, hitching his boots against the edge of the bench cushion. Looking down at the datapad hooded by his curled form… he freezes.

He shouldn’t. They’re too busy.

Warren chews his lip as his hands dig though his hair, combing through it as concern wrestles with hesitation. He wants to help – but who is he to ask for anything? It’s out of the way, not a priority for the cephalon or warframe… so there’s no reason to be concerned. It doesn’t effect him… it doesn’t effect him, his fingers press against his skull, eyes squeezing shut. His breathing huffs.

The kids back in the facility… there was no reason to help them, so why did he? All it brought him was pain, pain – his left palm drops to where the snarl of teeth remains exposed. Proof of the damage it’s done to him. Selfish…. Selfish, he batters his thoughts, curling his arms around his knees, the datapad pressed between his legs and chest as his head buries against his knees.

Their cries for help… his eagerness to help.

Only to hear they found another body in the maintenance shafts.

Fingers pull his hair.

Did any of them ever make it out…?

“Suuir,” he forces himself to evenly sit, feet pressed firmly on the floor as he leans over the datapad clutched between his hands. “This signal… can we investigate it?” His statement is firm, albeit hesitant.

The cephalon’s prism shows at the side of the datapad. ‘Is there anything unique about it?’

“It’s, it’s an S.O.S., an infested cephalon, we have to help,” Warren’s words speak fast, swallowing a knot taking place inside his throat.

‘One of thousands,’ the cephalon speaks flat, ‘perhaps. The system is full of them, Warren.’

“I – I don’t care,” he ignores the insinuation; “I want to help this one.”

‘Likely, if infested, it’s a trap.’

“Can’t –,” Warren’s fingers clutch, “can’t we just fly by, to just check?”

‘Negative,’ the cephalon’s polygons flare, ‘it is not in the mission directives. Ignore it.’

“I can’t just ignore someone that needs help!” Warren shouts, tears beading his eyes.

‘But we can,’ the cephalon speaks cold – him and the warframe. The later still on a mission.

And the communication is cut.

And Warren’s shaking.

Disregarded, ignored, turned down; he stares at the datapad in anger, internally cursing at the cephalon – a habitual reaction that makes him worse. Just the same as then; he has no place to speak, no stake in his emotional direction as he curls his hands into his hair, digging against his scalp as he pulls his hair in distress.

The same as before; only the scenery’s changed.

Frantically he digs out the transponder. He fumbles as he hitches the ear piece over, keeping himself in the curled form as he tries to yield himself calm. “Dad,” his breath heaves, sight edged with tears. Voice cracking.

It takes a moment. “Warren, what’s wrong?” comes across the transponder – Warren can feel a bullet puncture the warframe’s shoulder. “Sonuvabitch!” The warframe curses.

Warren flinches – he shouldn’t have called; he’s getting his father into danger and wasting their time. He just shouldn’t bother at all – he’s just a nuisance, a waste; his tears break forth, nearly yanking off the transponder in a fit.

Fingers curled around the wire he freezes – a mental slap for being so dramatic as his form trembles. It’s just what he deserves, doesn’t he? For speaking up – he has no place, he’s still a kid after all... grown up among the war lust that preceded him. There’s no reason for him to speak up, there’s no place for that – he sniffs up as his coat rubs tears from his eyes.

After a brief moment where he chokes and coughs his own tears, the warframe returns to him. “Warren, what’s the matter?” Concerned, or probably just anger his fear dreads.

Should not have said anything; theirs a pause as only the tenno’s garbled whimpers come through.

“I’ll be home after this assignment, kid. Just hold in there, okay?”

The balls of his fist presses against his weeping eye, “o-okay,” he sobs.

In the silence he pulls off the transponder, throwing it into the hologram.

Hands dig through his hair, pulling as he makes himself small and coiled up. Now he’s done it; making a big deal out of something small. He hates it… he hates it he hates himself he hates anything he’s done. Arms pull around his legs, snuggling himself close before he pulls himself down beneath the sheets of the bed to the side, wrestling himself down within as his legs stick out and hang over the edge – he doesn’t care, his hands coil around his ears, head pressed between his arms as his mind catastrophizes again and again. Crying into them.

Time slips by around him as his thoughts fumble through trauma to trauma, where he’s gone wrong, reliving it all in intricate details. Every warframe he ever piloted, every wound he had received, each grueling slap across his face where the Orokin mask laid over where his teeth bare snarled. Where each passing hour had lasted in the depths of the isolation chamber, where arboriforms beamed down and hummed above.

The only thing that pulls him out is a hand curling over his blanketed shoulder – he sniffs.

Weight sits on the bed.

“Need some more time…?” The warframe whispers, easing out a sigh.

“Yeah…” the teenager’s voice chokes, hiccuping.

“I’ll be here until you feel better,” T’viska sighs behind him, moving over to the cushioned bench.

Silence fills the space between them as Warren tries to settle his coughs and sniffs.

As he waits for the teenager to comfortably compose himself, T’viska picks up the datapad from where it had landed between the bed and the bench, claws clicking against it in idle thought. Last left on the historic recording, and the hologram still centered on the origin point of the signal – it doesn’t take long for him to put the pieces together.

And he says nothing – sliding it over onto the ottoman that sits between him and the hologram.

When the teenager’s ready to speak, he’ll speak.

T’viska’s claws clasp one over the other, eyespots drawn tight in thought. And sighs.

He can still hear the tenno sniffling beneath the sheets as his head drops between his shoulder blades, elbows resting on his knees.


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -+- Kudos, sharing, and comments are encouraged! -+-
> 
> Tags will be updated over time.

‘You’re abandoning the assignments…?’ The cephalon questions at the edge of the loki’s sight. Suuir lingers there as he stands before the foundry mixing tea into a steam cleaned canister. Placing down the stirring rod he inspects the consistency by giving it a gravity stir – rolling it side to side in his golden grip.

“They’re not being abandoned, Suuir,” the warframe sighs. He deposits the utensils down into the foundry’s processor valve as he sets the large canister down at the side, three others lined up and prepared. Carefully, he pours the hot mix of liquid and hydrolyzed flakes into the smaller canisters.

‘And yet, you’ve already taken the contracts.’

“I have,” the warframe dances his sight over to where the cephalon preoccupies his optical sensors. “I will do them after I take care of him, alright?” He snaps the lids on two of them closed for easier transportation. “They’ve been sitting for a couple Saturnal days – they can sit a couple more hours.”

Point made, the cephalon flickers off to keep them on the current course corresponding to the six contracts still active; tactical exterminations, behind the line sabotages, captures. Easy for a loki to perform; he picks up the canisters one by one, holding the secured lid canisters against him before he grabs the last one as he departs.

Walking back down into the residential quarters, he offers the open canister to the huddled tenno. It’s taken quickly by the teenager that still housing himself beneath the blanket, sat at the edge of the bed and hunched over. T’viska sets the other canisters down on the ottoman before them, sitting himself down at the teenager’s side.

In silence, Warren takes a cautious sip, tasting the mixture as his features scrunch. Then takes another.

“How’s it…?” The warframe asks.

“It’s… bitter,” he whispers with a hitched voice – vocal cords still wrecked by his anxious coughs. “But… good,” he creases a small smile into the two-hand hold.

“Good,” T’viska’s tense shoulders go lax, gladly waiting for him to finish.

It does take some time as the tea is still hot; however, doesn’t negate the effect it has on Warren as he breathes in the steam coming off it, further relaxing him out of the aftereffects of his panic attack. Sat quietly at the edge of the bed, he scoots back before easing a sigh, breath blowing over it before he takes another cautious sip.

T’viska can’t bring himself to start, but he needs to. “So,” he picks up the datapad, “the radar sweep caught a call for assistance a while back, was that what you ask Suuir about?”

Warren remains seated, not even looking up from the canister of tea. “Yeah… I asked him if we could investigate…”

“What did he say…?”

“That… it’s not special, there’s many other infested ships out there…”

T’viska sits there looking between Warren and the log. Listening as the teenager takes a longer sip of the tea, recounting over the courses to set between the signal given off by the ship in distress and the assignments he’s already taken. The ones still on the table but not taken sit at the side – looking up to the hologram on the other side of the room his signal requests a copy of the coordinates.

“If it’s too much… then its fine,” Warren mumbles.

There’s a pause; T’viska lost in thought.

Fingers hold the canister tight in the silence.

“If its important to you, then we’ll swing by,” T’viska looks over, setting the datapad down. “If you want to help, with whatever the situation is – then we’ll investigate it together. After I finish up these last few missions. Suuir is just very… particular about sticking to the plan and doesn’t like to deviate from it. I’m sure you can understand?”

Warren sighs, looking down into the half empty canister of tea. “I guess… everyone has their own plans… on what to do.” His grip moves so only one hand holds the canister, the other nervously gripping in the crook of his arm as he leans into an elbow on his leg. Silent and tentative to keep himself from sinking into the thought that he doesn’t have priority, that his needs come last… he stares into the canister.

“Mhm,” T’viska sighs, mouth drawn into a line as he watches the teenager meditate on his tea. In the silence, through his logic circuits, he tunes the sequence of contracts he’s already been slated on, sharing it and adjusting the cephalon’s course system to mesh, checking in that the emergency signal’s coordinates are in place. A direct route connects it from the final mission; Suuir encourages him to get back to the task at hand. “I’m going back out; taking care of these last few assignments. Just take it easy, kid. Don’t worry about it too much, alright?”

Sight turned down; the teenager makes a slow nod.

It makes it hard for T’viska to pull himself up from the cushioned bench, especially as the emotions are transferred into bodily sensations. A knot in the throat, a tightness in the chest, the slight quivering shiver as the tenno remains where he sits as he departs back into the back of the room; he adjusts the far screen to turn back to a placid view, a saved state to not show the war wreckage that lingers outside the orbiter.

He still has work to do.

Warren’s hand clenches on his arm, head dropping down as the canister lingers between two fingers – barely lingering above the floor. Hand combing through his hair, he sighs, downing the rest of the tea despite the burn it brings to his throat. It’s welcomed as he sets it by his feet, holding his head between his hands. “What’s wrong with me…” he whispers, blankets hooding over him as he sits hunched. Beneath him the orbiter barely shifts – the departure of the loki’s liset.

Hands pull through his grown curls, staring down at the floor as they drop between his knees.

If he just had his own ship… a hand presses over his temple, releasing a sigh.

Picking up another canister.

 

 

It’s several more hours until the orbiter shifts again, baring the landing craft’s load inside its hanger – Warren watches it through the monitoring system beneath a blanket, paying attention to the mechanisms that settle the liset into place. Where the anchors connect, where it balances the vessel down into its nesting cradle, where the automated systems tend to the damages.

After a moment he flips back through the catalog of research papers recovered by the data retrievals and the salvaging efforts, information seized from the ruined vessels, ones torn to ruin by grineer gunfire; information duplicated for ransom – given off to those willing to fork over the high mark amount. Warren was initially hesitant as he watched the data be categorized, duplicated into the reserves; until he realized all the information he had been reading – the arboriforms, the void, the countless papers and images he trawled through came from the same method. Information has a cost – he was only so lucky to be able to see it.

He doesn’t look up from where he’s been postured back against the wall on the bed, burying himself deeper inside the blanket and around the datapad as the door slides open. Not acknowledging the warframe as he enters, eyes remaining downturned to the logs.

Without anything to pick up – having assumed the canisters would still be there – the loki sits himself down onto the cushioned bench. “How are you feeling…? Any better…?” the loki whispers as he leans onto his knees.

There’s a pause; Warren shuffles. “Kinda…” he restrains himself from saying much further, huddling the datapad close as he idly browses over the text. It keeps a semblance of preoccupation as he looks over it without a sense of what he’s looking for, or if he’s paying attention to it even at all.

“Can I see it?” T’viska asks softly, motioning towards the datapad when the tenno looks up.

Easily he hands it over to the warframe, pulling the blanket around himself as he watches with pulled brows, curious about whatever the warframe plans to use it for. Too far away from the transparent screen, the teenager can’t tell what T’viska taps through; golden claws dragging through the logs and returning them back to the signal – or the space it should occupy once they near the whatever craft lies at the other end. In cognitive circuits, and soon bloomed over the hologram on the far end of the room, the orbiter’s course is set – to pass by the region they passed before.

The warframe doesn’t look up from the datapad as the tenno pulls himself out of the cowering restrain, blankets still pulled over him as he sits at the edge of the bed by the bench cushions. He says nothing, greeting the wandering blue eyed kavat’s head with his palm, scratching beneath her chin.

“Looks like it’s heavy class vessel, from its residual signature,” the loki sighs, “unlikely to be grineer, and corpus have their own personal frequencies to relay through. Not along the main through-space either.” He stares at the datapad where it’s tapped into the radar and radio frequencies – the later transposed and overlaying the course directions. “Infested cephalon narrows down the cause of distress… but there’s several ships afflicted with the infestation.”

Warren remains quiet, head dropping as he listens.

“And even if that’s just it, it’s worth investigating, so someone else doesn’t fall victim.”

There’s a minor nod from the tenno, head turning to the hologram with a light sigh. Uncertain.

T’viska looks up from the datapad to Warren, looking back to it as he kicks his legs up onto the ottoman and taps the datapad on his thigh – a few minutes before they are in range, hoping his casual posture comes across correctly as he watches the teenager’s palm stroke over Rhubarb’s pelt. Turning back to the signal he stares over previous signal that was initially captured, or more precisely the tracking data buried deeper into the radar systems.

An orbiter; tagged with the Lotus’ signature.

Double checking, he reads back over the information that’s only kept in Suuir’s system and in his own cognitive view. T’viska glances over to the teenager, and back to the hologram across the way.

Five minutes… five minutes of silence the warframe sits through as he hopes no one is aboard, and the orbiter has gone completely dark.

If only his luck would turn out; dreading a confrontation.

“Assi-sistance…… sy-tem,” creaks through the radar net as they near the region, a cephalon corroded with infestation, “Habitation…fline… Oper…danger…” crawls with the surge of groan and chitin clips, desperation hinging their voice in remorse. “Som-PLEASEPLEAs- Lotus, help us,” whimpers. Creasing shivers down the warframe’s spine; the cephalon deeply infested, too much uncontrolled growth.

To the side, Warren sits static, staring at the repeating pleas. Mouth parted as his eyes remain wide – frozen in place.

“Hab…offline…med…gency…” the cephalon croaks, shriveling in their transmission.

Suuir locks it down, parking the orbiter far from where the beacon is ringing from. ‘Can’t trust them,’ his text snaps, ‘Lotus Orbiter, likely too far gone for us to be of any use.’

Teeth gnashed, Warren stands up, throwing off the blanket as he weaves around the kavat and the ottoman. T’viska sits up, dropping the datapad at his side. “Warren, where are you –“

“I’m going to help them,” he strongly states, barely turned back to where the loki is sitting beyond the steps; his voice is already trembling. “And neither you nor Suuir are going to stop me.” He stands firm, adamant in his decision even as welts of tears bead in the corner of his vision and as his voice quivers. Turning heel, he stalks back through the ship, grabbing T’viska’s euphona on his way down into the hanger chambers to where the liset sits cooled by the chill.

Though not as tall as the warframe, he easily takes the copilot seat up as the pilot seat. Hands held still over the console before he starts to punch in the control codes; his hands are shaking throughout it, his voice hitching as he pulls the steering column out of its cradle to pilot it back, to pull free from the orbiter.

And it does nothing.

He yanks it back and forth, each ratchetting hollow click digs against his emotional restraint until he throws it back forward, pulling himself up as hands dig through his hair.

So utterly useless… his frustration carves. Why does he even try at this point?

Sat alone in the liset, crying his eyes out in the silence of the hanger.

His arms pull around his legs, face pressing into his knees.

Worthless, he sobs.

Crying; he sniffs, angrily wiping away the tears. “Why do I even bother…” he chokes and coughs.

Sitting in the darkness with the euphona glinting in the low light, he adverts his gaze from it. Angrily kicking the steering column with a grunt before pulling himself into a tight ball.

Sobbing… even as the liset comes to life. Golden claws land on his shoulder, giving it a brief rub.

He flinches away.

The hand pulls back, curled with hesitation. T’viska lets out a shallow sigh, “it’s alright, kid.” He moves down into a kneel, checking the directions towards the afflicted orbiter in his cognitive sight. “I wasn’t going to stop you; Suuir took… a littler persuading on the other hand.” He watches the teenager wipe away his tears, mouth curled into a partial snarl. “We’ll need to be careful when we board, alright? None of us know what’s aboard – infested or otherwise.”

Warren sniffs; head still turned away as he wipes the painful tears from his cheeks, angry at himself for being so rash, for running out in a huff. Useless, his mind surges, a bother.

T’viska can hear the emotional coil transfer to his own. He wishes he could just ease it away… “If you want some time to breathe I can –”

“I want to go,” Warren whispers.

T’viska’s mouth paints a sad frown, teeth gritting. “I know, Warren. But I want to give you time to be able to process what’s going on… I don’t want you to get hurt when we board.”

Warren sniffs. Sitting quiet.

The warframe stands up slowly, “let me get some things before we leave, alright? I’ll be right back. I promise.”

Picking up the euphona before he departs, tucking it at his side.

Once more the tenno is alone, shoving his hands beneath his arms as he slouches, tear stains still creasing and stinging inside his mouth where teeth bare snarls. His boots kick up against the steering column before it locks back into its upright position, his head hooded by his coat as his shoulders tense up against the chair.

Being hasty, he sniffs up a tempting sob – his face a mess again as his coat sleeve rubs against it. Wanting to run out, run away from the overbearing weight that sinks deep into his chest; the control baring over him without physical restraints, wearing his scarring face that he stares at in the glass screen reflection before them.

Ugly.

He reaches for something to pull up over it.

Only there’s nothing, nothing to hide it.

He curses himself for the forgetfulness, another in his list of flaws that claw in the back of his mind.

Hands pull himself back into a ball, sighing between his knees as his eyes sting with exhaustion – knowing it’ll only take a few short seconds for them to heal from the tear struck burns just like the invisible scars on his wrist where he looks to. His left arm, scorched with corruption, he holds up to view. His mouth drawn into anger, shuffling the sleeve down over the disfigurement.

“Here,” the loki’s voice whispers, golden claws offering him a cloth to wipe his face.

Warren takes it and, in both hands, presses it against his face. Water drips down his chin and throat as his body heals from the wrecking pain left from the sobbing, soaking his front as he holds it over his exposed teeth. Taking a moment where he’s sat still, he looks over to the warframe at his left – one of his scarves in hand. “T-thanks,” he whispers as he trades one for the other.

As he wraps it around his face, obscuring his facial scarring, T’viska deposits the cloth into an enclosed bin. “Are you feeling better?” he asks as he sits in the pilot seat, looking over to Warren as the teenager eases himself back to properly sit right.

The good portion of his mouth presses into a line, and nods. Still too rattled to talk.

“Good,” the loki sighs with a smile. “It’s best to have your thoughts cleared before you go out on stuff like this. Can never be too careful in these times,” exhales as he pulls the steering column out of its cradle. Behind them the ramp hitches snuggly into the vessel’s shell, internal pins clicking into their grooves and pressure sealing as it begins to rise. In the space between, as Suuir directs the liset out the hanger bay, they click the safety belts into place.

Across the screen before them, as T’viska takes control, the liset displays the region of space around them in direct camera feeds and overlays; relaying the other orbiter’s position relative from their own that sits behind them. Within the void cloak where it masks an ozone layer to filter the surrounding light, the stars alight like the night sky, the coordinates cradled in the edges as the proximity indicators come alive. Hundred of meters less than where the orbiter waits in safety, reading another million as it soars through space.

The cephalon pops up in T’viska’s vision – separated from the tenno’s view.

‘This better be worth it, T,’ the cephalon blips, moving from the loki’s senses back into the liset’s systems as the screen blooms a ping – in search of the cloaked orbiter.

“There,” Warren points out to their upper right view, his voice still hushed by both wrecked nerves and the scarf pulled over his mouth.

As T’viska directs the liset over – and as the orbiter’s outline draws into view – the cephalon curses in the hind of his thoughts, he doesn’t budge from where he’s sitting. ‘The ship’s cephalon is null, I have to isolate them,’ giving T’viska direct control as he slows its speed, coursing it into orbit around the larger ship. ‘Give me a few minutes to contain them, T.’

The loki nods, looking over to the tenno, “Suuir’s securing our entrance.”

From where he’s still seated, Warren nods, watching the orbiter sitting outside through a secondary monitor that he sets to track the ship as they round over the rear thrusters, sinking into its void cloak.

Sliding back down and around the other side he can see the damage it has sustained to the starboard side; a corpus cruiser embedded and smoldering beneath its chassis, metal warped by heat and the sudden vacuum chill. Unobservant collision, the void cloak the only protection from intrusion, the ships fused together in the point of contact by infested growths, shells made of the rubble and jutting out to keep the cruiser stable in place. Infestation crawls over the surface of the orbiter, gaseous nodes blooming light as it sits over the breaks in the orbiter’s fuselage. Arboriforms escaping and winding into empty space – just like any other derelict.

Warren’s gloved palms pull into his forearms, uncertainty choking him before the loki speaks up.

“Are you okay with boarding, Jacob?” He speaks calmly, bringing the liset to a halt outside the starboard side hangers – three to choose out of six, the others shunted shut by infested arboriforms.

Taking a moment to pause, to look over the ship outside. Warren turns to T’viska, “I’m ready.”

The loki nods, confirming one last time with Suuir. ‘I’m opening the secure hanger, six life signatures inside,’ the cephalon responds, overlaying the orbiter’s schematics into the warframe’s view. And directs the liset down into the easing open hanger – the door shuddering as it pries itself open.

Creaking as it snaps shut behind the liset as the lights struggle to turn on.

A hand already on his euphona, T’viska throws off the seatbelts. As Suuir takes over the controls and angles the liset backwards into the cradle the loki begins to stalk back towards the ramp, grabbing onto a railing as it shudders down into place beneath their feet. Waiting for the ramp to fall open, he looks over to the tenno still in his seat – hesitating to pull off his own seatbelts. With the locks grinding out and letting the ramp ease open, he pulls the ceramic dagger out from its holster on his thigh and offers it to the tenno – still in his seat.

“Come on,” he whispers, golden claws holding the weapon by its blade, “I trust you with it.”

The ramp rests soundly on the walkway before Warren finally pulls of the seatbelts, glove balling around the dagger’s hilt.

“Here,” the loki sets his euphona to the side, claws carefully directing the teenager’s fingers, “hold it like this – gives a better range of control and puts less strain on your wrist if you hit something.” Thumb on the spine, pausing for a moment as he pulls away and lets the teenager fiddle.

“I know how to hold a knife…” the teenager sighs.

“It’s a lot different when you’re striking someone with it,” the warframe exhales. Taking a pause before he gives Warren an awkward pat on the back. “Six life signs inside, Suuir can’t tell what. Their signatures are masked by the previous cephalon.” He starts forward, charting through the infested orbiter.

Joining the warframe’s side – albeit a little behind him – Warren questions, “what happened to the other one…”

“Too infested; Suuir had to contain them. Else they would’ve driven the liset to crash.”

“…that doesn’t answer what happened to them.”

Walking up the ramp into the inner belly of the orbiter the warframe sighs, “they became infested… there’s no way to recover a cephalon from this. Or the ship.”

Warren watches after the warframe as he pauses, looking to where arboriform crack into the hallway from the tubing in the walls, where exhaust steam wheezes weakly. And chases back after him, taking the lead as he details the damage done to the structure. Where the pipes run busted in engine exhales and cracked by the bulge of infested arboriforms.

Walking into the central walkway, the smell is horrendous, worse than the deepest fleshy fissure of the medbay on their own ship. Holding a hand over his nose the tenno continues onward, stepping over a short blockage of infested growth that has crawled from the ceiling down onto the floor. The residential area sits just above them as he continues on – T’viska asks him to wait – he doesn’t heed and begins to jog. Looking back – not to the warframe that follows him –

But to the body he’d just stepped over, a mag’s cerebral casing crushed in.

Brain matter sticking to the floor as he turns back, racing up into the ship.

There has to be someone, anyone he can save.

The ceramic dagger clicks against the floor, racing up the ramp and hitting a wall of miasma – his hands clasping around his face. Tears sting his eyes as the toxins sting his eyes, the spores overwhelming as he tries to pressure on, running through past the collapsed foundry and past the dark arsenal; infestation hangs overhead as he sprints down towards the medbay, hoping, pleading for whomevers inside to still be alive, fingers prying the half jammed door open as his fists surge brilliant blue. His fingers jam into the machinery, pulling and pushing it wide enough for him to wiggle himself into the darkness.

His somatic sight compensates for the lack of overhead lights and the overbearing infested red.

Warren disregards the shape sat over to the side as his attention snaps to the intensive care cot where he can see someone laying, the casing pulled shut as the lights barely flicker with loss of power. He runs to it, hands splaying over the glass, “hey, can you hear me?” his voice trembles beneath his scarf, tear struck as he pulls himself over to where the control panel should be functioning.

Keyword – should – as his thumb jams against the release controls, cursing as he fusses with the failsafe measures. Falling back onto the glass tubing he taps it, frantic, “I’m going to get you out of there, okay? Okay.” His breathing hitches, moving down to the back of it, reaching for the arboriform connection – all that comes back in his hand is sludge, remnants of an ill aboriform that seeps through his fingers. His hand brushes against the glass, fingers trying to pry on the bottom, trying to heave it off. “Come on, you fucking thing – open!” He sobs, frantically trying to find some way to yank it open, ignoring the plodding steps behind him.

The medbay door falls open with one giant heave, creaking that causes the tenno to turn, arms pulled over the cot as his hands bloom with void energy. “Don’t come any closer,” he hisses, tears stinging his eyes from the stench and frustration. Staring down the warframe standing before him hunched over and aglow with energy and infestation.

Warren’s teeth grit, steeling himself as the oberon lurches forward and their hooves stumble against the glass floor, the reservoir below them bloated with infested growth. Eyes squeezing shut as the large palm reaches over… and lands at his side, the warframe looking past him to the quiet body inside – placid and silent.

While the intensive care cot barely clings to functionality, the oberon gently pushes him away.

His heart still racing, Warren watches as the warframe drops themselves to their knees, helm pressing against the glass as their gauntlet hands curl into fists as they exhale. In the darkness of the medbay, the most Warren can make out is the dark patterning obscured by the horrendous lighting around them, their gilding that runs over their elbow and forearms stand stark in his sight, the cracked cream ivory that arches over their shoulders to a shining metal spine. Their energy signature runs sick – a gentle blue ill with infested red, infested. It sits around their hip, a gashing wound.

Hesitating to step any closer, Warren reaches out, “h-hey,” his voice quivers.

The oberon doesn’t move, curling against the cot.

“C-can you understand me?” He tries once more, trembling hand reaching to their shoulder.

“Warren!”

His head snaps up; and so does the oberon’s.

The statuesque warframe lunges over to the smaller loki, nearly half a meter making a difference in height as the prime shoves him out of the medbay, right back into the wall of infested meat as the euphona fires. A bestial scream rolls through the oberon as blood dashes across the floor of the orbiter, shrugging off a weaker punch as in the tight space it takes little more than a sparse jolt of their hand to cast a short smite – T’viska recoils under the barrage of projectile radiation, firing off another shot towards the oberon.

It only grazes a front curving hand horn, muscling their way forward as Warren races after them.

The euphona clatters to the ground; the oberon’s fingers curling around the loki’s throat as he’s lurched back into the wall and ceiling. Golden claws dig around the dusk and rust oberon’s forearms, choking, kicking against the other warframe’s chest as he tries to yell.

Wrestling off the transferred choking sensation that grips his throat, Warren’s glove grips the euphona tight, pulling down his scarf and gagging before taking aim.

“Put him down!” His stomach lurches ailed by the nauseous fumes. His grip is faltering; he shakes of the dizziness that tries to take hold as he can feel his father struggling to breathe. “Put him down now!” He waves the gun in the oberon’s direction, fingers on the trigger as he barely holds back a nervous sob.

Grip yielding, the oberon stares at him.

“I said put him down!” The tenno quivers where he stands, holding his ground even as tears flow over his chin.

Still tense, the oberon relents his grip and T’viska drops to the floor with a startled gasp. Freed again the loki scrambles up to his feet, shoving the oberon with his shoulder and putting them off kilter and stumbles down the ramp. Golden claws seize the euphona and takes aim – and Warren tries to wrestle it free, shouting, “no don’t shoot them!”

Pulling the euphona away from Warren, held away high.

The oberon cringes on the floor below the ramp.

T’viska tucks the euphona away into its holster; his breathing panting, adrenaline running high.

All of them remain still; the loki swallows. “What was in there, Warren.” He snaps, nerves still alight, energy pulsing through his veins.

“They’re friendly! I trust them –”

“WHAT WAS IN THE BED, JACOB,” T’viska yells, turning to look between the tenno and the oberon at the base of the ramp. He can hear – no – feel Warren crying, the fingers that grip into his forearm bandaging. They’ve already passed three life signs, the fourth in front of them from the oberon, and two others down in the other portions of the ship.

Suuir pokes into his vision, ‘T’viska, there’s nothing –‘

T’viska pushes him out of his logic circuits, stalking down past where the oberon is crumbled and into the medbay.

‘The Operator’s already gone, T…’ the cephalon pulls himself into the loki’s sight, bringing up the last recorded logs from the cot as dark brown palms hold onto the glass casing. ‘The cephalon has been calling for assistance the last 8-9-1 hours, and it’s been infested for much longer.’ His mouth turns into a snarl as he pulls himself off the casing that holds the deceased tenno.

“What happened to them, Suuir,” he speaks; he can hear Warren tending to the oberon behind him.

‘Severe brain hemorrhaging… but that’s only the most recent, they’ve been using the bed frequently for a lot of different issues.’

“Brain hemorrhaging,” he repeats – for Warren. “Did they go peacefully…?”

‘Yes… in their sleep. The oberon has been tending to them before… this.’

“I see…” he sighs, looking back to where his son sits with the sick warframe. The tenno had slowly eased him over into a sit, looking over where the festering infestation sits in its wound. “Can you retrieve anything from the ship’s logs, Suuir?”

‘I need time to do that, you know that, T’viska.’

“Right,” T’viska crosses the medbay, dismissing the cephalon to get to work. There’s nothing else much left to salvage from what he’s prescribing as a derelict, a thought that passes through into his optical readout as he passes Warren and the oberon to round to the other side of the infestation stuffed hallway. He finds one of the other life signatures, a trinity laid out on the ground, her innards trailing into the infestation as he walks over to wander into the residential quarters. Inside there’s nearly nothing of note – cleared except for the layers of infested spores, the ambient creaking of infestation taken systems. Crossing back, wandering into the transference chamber he finds the last one – a volt half taken by the infested arboriforms and dug deep into its nervous system.

Pressing the euphona to the volt’s temple – he fires.

Their life signal finally goes dark.


	19. Chapter 19

A sigh presses itself through the warframe’s chest as he takes pause, head leaning back as he tucks the euphona away from the holster on his belt, adverting his optic sensors away from where ember gore lies before him – head blown off clean. His paws splay over the infested slicken floor, turning away from where the infestation quivers and squishes in anguished agony as he steps over the remnants of the earlier discovered Mag, shoving the cephalon’s words away to the side at first. ‘T’viska,’ the cephalon comments again as his polygons flare, frustrated, ‘there was nothing more you could do for them… but couldn’t you have waited instead?’

“No,” the warframe snarls, walking back into the upper halls of the orbiter. “Would you rather they lash out at us for intruding? Risk them pulling out of the infestation and your hold?”

‘There is a point to have some restraint,’ Suuir bounces back, swiveling through the warframe’s consciousness to the other side of his view. ‘I can still feel it in my systems; their lifelines were fused with the other one, kept the other from having an overloading core.’

“Good,” T’viska breathes outside the interlay that lingers between them, searching through what remains of the arsenal table for something to salvage. “I’m hoping it makes it easier to scramble them, make the cephalon’s end easier.” What he finds he carries off to his liset just as swiftly, ignoring the infested gurgles and squishes that sound around him as he moves. In between he takes the courteous glances over to where Warren has gotten the oberon to rest; the loki’s nerves are still on edge, hurriedly salvaging for items so they won’t spend time here longer than they need to.

The glance he managed to get of the tenno in the medbay stings in his mind, the warframes half cannibalized by infested growth and still breathing, still staring – he leans up over the dimmed foundry as he forces himself to breath, focusing himself on browsing through the foundry system. Ammo, weaponry parts, supplies that they might find need for… anything that may be turned to scrap. He shuffles any and all the blueprints he finds off through Suuir’s connection, leaving the canister system for last.

He does pick through what the foundry spits out at him, wiping the infested soaked canisters on his thighs to clean what left it formally clogged. A sequence of the containers spit out saturated in the ailing fluids until he finally finds something of usage – chemical restores, something he’s only seen left behind by Lotus squads that arrived just before him on the trails. Searching through the junk near the foundry he does take a look over to where the oberon sits in the corner around the bend, where the teenager sits at the massive warframe’s side.

Looking over to the foundry, where one of the restores sits. He picks it up, paws silent as he walks over and kneels. “How’re they doing?” he keeps his voice low, offering the canister to Warren. “Health restore, only seen them left behind by Lotus mercs… guess they still had a few left before the system got clogged up.”

Warren takes it, palm digging around the lock holding the top still. “His name is Kiln… he’s told me. And it still hurts, quite a lot.” The tenno looks to the device in his hand as it expands to its full size, letting it land on the floor where it pulsates a red aura.

The warframe says nothing, but Warren can tell, he can feel the staring hesitation.

He taps his head with his index and middle finger, letting his right hand curl in the air between them. “I don’t know how it all works, dad… but he knows… and he’s sad, and he wants to apologize.” The oberon’s head remains downcast tucked between his large crossed forearms as they lean onto his left knee, right leg laid out to the side so Warren can inspect the infestation that lies there. “He’s… sorry for attacking you.”

“I don’t blame him,” T’viska forces himself to stand, grunting as he rises from his knees. “He saw a threat, and he did what he thought was right. And the…” he cuts himself off, looking over to where the dead trinity lies just a few steps away, “the others didn’t look like they fared any better… with all this growth.”

As the warframe returns to the foundry he’s followed by the tenno’s sight, observing as he kneels down to where a crate has been caught beneath the slump of infested vines. Golden claws latch around the sides, digging into the surface for a moment, just enough to try and find his grip. It doesn’t budge.

“They’re all dead now… for sure…?” Warren asks.

T’viska pauses where he sits on the floor. “Yeah… they’re at peace now,” he yanks a wind of infestation out from beneath, making a way so the crate can begin to wiggle free. “The infestation is a gruesome thing… takes things for itself.”

“And Kiln…?”

The loki sighs as he lets the crate fall back into place among the infestation. “I leave that up to you, kid. If you want to try and stabilize him back on the ship, I don’t mind,” he moves into a grunt, yanking the heavy object off to another side, hoping to finally work it free. “What’s the fuck in this thing…” he curses beneath his breath, leaning over onto one side to kick away a limp length of torn infestation.

Warren’s mouth draws into a line as he watches his father fuss with the crate, reactive flinches jolting through his nerves as T’viska fights the infestation. After a moment his hands return back to the oberon’s side first, looking back over to where the biological wounding begins to draw away under the aura pulses. His gloves graze over where the infestation digs beneath the warframe’s skin, feeling where the surface squishes down, reassuming the somatic connection between them; where the oberon remains silent, staring off and away.

“Did that help…?” he whispers between the connection, his hands cupping around the site as he chews hips lip, sight looking over to where the ceramic dagger sits in its sheath at the side – put away to prevent any further contamination.

Kiln neither motions nor speaks, only easing out a shivering huff.

With an affirmed connection between them, the tenno can tell how far the pain stings into the oberon’s gut, where the cancerous tissue tangles around his pelvis and spine and anchors deep. Too much to just heal away – reading the sensory burn that lingers around the growths fighting to take the warframe’s body. Too much more and it might even take his neurals, his legs… Warren pulls away before his emotions run rampant, looking over to the ceramic dagger.

His hand rests up on a raised bicep; Warren forces himself to breathe deep. “I’ll… need to cut it out of you, Kiln. So… you’ll have a chance to recover from it and… it’s going to hurt a lot.”

Kiln doesn’t react, head still leaning down against his arms crossed and lied over his knee. Reserved into silence, disassociating from the issue at hand and letting whatever comes come. It runs Warren’s blood cold as his brows draw tight, mouth twisted as he looks over to the ceramic dagger he holds in hesitation, hands trembling. Second thoughts taking place.

It shakes free as a short cry is let out behind him.

Turning, Warren watches as the loki pulls himself up from the floor, dusting off the infestation spores that threaten to cling into his pants. “There we fucking go,” rises a mild cheer, a small smile that creases the warframe’s maw as he walks around to free it complete. His golden claws click against the harsh latches that line along the sides, undoing them to let the chest finally fall open as he falls into a kneel. From where the tenno is sat on the floor he can’t tell much that the crate holds, merely just looking over the corpus insignia etched into the top, grossed in sickly maroon. “Jacob,” the warframe smiles over at him, “come check this out.”

Making a glance over to the oberon, the tenno moves himself up into a stand, wandering over to where the warframe has settled himself in front of the crate. “What is it…?”

“Polymer, and oxium. Both highly valuable and sought after, we can resell them. Will fetch us quite a good bit,” T’viska trails off in a smile, counting over the bundles set before them. “They’re all intact too, so might even be worth more than the normal salvaging materials.”

Looking over them… Warren doesn’t find himself as impressed as his father. Objects that have mere simple monetary worth; a thought that claws through his chest as he pushes himself up to stand once more, looking over the derelict’s infested mess. “Have you checked the modifying station…?” His sight holds focus on it, sat numb beneath the glow of a blinding node.

“I’ve not,” T’viska snaps the latches back into place, “but plan too… hopefully there’s something in there of use. No one buys busted enhancements unless they’re a collector or something.” Sighs before his hands grasp his knees, forcing himself up with a grunt. “Their… Kiln’s injuries, how severe are they?”

Warren turns his attention away, obscuring his face into darkness. Trying to keep his emotions in check, forced down into his throat. “It’s deep… if anything it’ll need to be cut out.”

Silence.

And the loki sighs, heaving the crate up by the handles fused into the sides. “Lets… discuss it later.”

Keeping his breathing down, Warren eases a slow nod. Only turning when he hears the loki descend the ramp down into the lower chambers of the orbiter. Taking the treasures onto their liset.

Boots walking through the fury of spores, he nearly returns to Kiln’s side, sitting across from him with his hands drawn up around his legs, back pressing into the still pristine features behind him. An area not yet taken by the growths.

Kiln doesn’t move as Warren presses his nose against his forearms, staring out through his hair to the massive oberon. Hoping that the warframe doesn’t notice him, pleading inside his mind before his anxiety forces his forehead to press into his arms, rubbing against the thoughts that wind through his mind. Reaching out… or at least trying to reach out as he stares back up through his furled hair that lies over his face, wondering, thinking aloud in his own head. To reach out from where he sits… find some comfort in that he doesn’t need the fucking somatic link.

His head presses against his arm again.

And sighs.

Kiln gently looks over to him before returning to his position.

They both remain static in place when T’viska returns from the docks far below them, seeking back through the chamber for anything else there’s left to salvage aside from checking the modification table. His golden claws become the only sound aside from the bellow of the infested growths that lie around them, humming and groaning as the ship still breathes around them, as the engines whirl endless and rattle the vessel’s guts.

T’viska reaches out to Suuir as he scrolls through the system’s remnants, requesting whatever there’s left for them to salvage. ‘Status check?’

Suuir pops into his optical sensors, drifting off to the side as their text takes precedent. ‘The manifests have been transferred to my own systems, as well as logs pertaining to various things, some the teen might find interest in.’

‘The plants?’ T’viska speaks internally as he begins to affirm the transfer between the two orbiter’s modification systems, letting Suuir siphon out the undamaged mods they might find use for or sell.

‘Those; and the infestation, the void, the somatic systems… seems like there’s several ways they can manifest,’ the cephalon mentions offhand, granting the loki view of the wireless transfer as he loads the vast quantity of data into his own cluster. ‘Plenty of material to look over. Won’t take too much longer to exhaust the vessel.’

‘The cephalon, how’s its status?’

‘Deceased, I’m the only one in this shell now.’

T’viska’s maw draws flat, glancing over to where the teenager sits curled up to the knees, hair obscuring his face. Tears sting in the back of his mind as he recounts the teenager’s anguish on Mars, the last time they visited… how Warren was able to force him still. Where reaching out did nothing to calm the frustrated teenager – and reignites the fear in his heart. ‘Suuir,’ the warframe waits, leaning against the modification station, golden claws fiddling over the surface. ‘Save those into a copy, the somatic systems ones… toss them over my way.’

‘As you wish…’ the cephalon’s polygons ease shut, firming his shape as it takes a mere instant to transfer the information over. ‘I take it there’s some… fear over what he might do. The teen.’

A soft sigh huffs from the warframe as he knuckles down against the station, biting back his breath as he glances over to where Warren sits. ‘I am scared, Suuir… about what he might do to himself if I don’t help him. If there’s some way I can help him understand himself, I want to pursuit that… He’s hurting, a lot.’ In the connection between them he gestures to where the tenno is sat against the wall. T’viska catches the slight movement from Warren as he shuffles but their sights don’t lock, the teenager still looking over to the oberon across from him.

‘Understandable… given his previous… issues.’ The cephalon diminishes his presence from the loki’s sight, a ping echoing through his consciousness as the mods have successfully moved from orbiter to the other. Suuir is not one for interpersonal issues. ‘Unless you find anything else of use, I’m disengaging in thirty minutes. Move them before then.’

‘…right,’ the loki’s head falls between the arch of his shoulder blades.

Giving himself space to breathe, to ease his nerves down, the warframe takes a moment as he stands there, thinking through the motions as he tries to piece through documents that present themselves in his mind. Logs that are briefly narrated by the head of them all – The Lotus, her voice sharp and prompt, direct to where it wouldn’t chide a child… but it grates in his ears, a hum that draws his hand up to his head.

“What you did… you didn’t have a choice.”

He shakes the audio log off, muting it before he’s pulled from his musings by a timer settled off at the side of his vision. Twenty-three minutes remaining.

T’viska sighs, pushing himself away from the modification station. “Warren,” he calls over, stepping over the infested growths that surge from the floor, “it’s time to go, Suuir’s got us fifteen minutes.”

A leg drops down to the floor, the tenno leaning himself off to the side in the gesture to eventually move and stand. “Alright…” he sighs in response; exhaustion, the warframe presumes as he walks over to the towering Oberon, reaching out to assist.

Gilded gauntlets smack his hands away.

T’viska says nothing as he just withdraws his offering palm.

“Kiln,” the tenno whispers, moving onto his knees before rising to his feet, “we need to go… it’s not safe here anymore.”

Stepping back, T’viska watches as the oberon leans up against the wall of the ship, an aggressive rumble rolling through his chest as he rises back to stand at the full two and a half meters he stands – towering over the loki. T’viska stays well out of his way, watching as the oberon departs down the ramp.

A pause sits between warframe and tenno; neither moves.

“Well… at least he listens to you,” T’viska sighs, barely turning his head as Warren passes him. “He going to ride with us back…?”

The teenager’s steps halt, rolling back and forth on his boots for a moment, “he wants to ride back on his own… on the ship Knev bought him.”

T’viska pauses, “the tenno… I presume.”

Warren nods.

T’viska watches as his son departs down the ramp, leaving him to stand alone within the gut of the derelict vessel; among the aggressive groans of infested growths, where spores cling to the fabric of his white armbands. A hand presses his metal fingers against the itch within his wrist, rubbing against it, briefly brushing away the pale debris that dull his golden claws on contact. With a sigh, pulling them away, he stares down over his palm as it lingers in the open air… he flexes it into a fist, watching as beneath the wrappings he can trace the tendons and muscles that lie beneath – completely healed, yet exposed just beneath, open scars just perfect for infested infiltration.

He shakes the thought from his head. “Suuir,” he calls out, making a motion towards the ramp, rolling on his paw, and steps back towards the sullen medbay. “Can you confirm its status, the other ship in port.” He disregards his impulse to head straight to the hanger platforms, his current intent obscured to even himself as he walks towards the pod silent and dead. Where infestation bulges the arboriform connections into necrosis grey.

‘It’s not tethered to the vessel; but I have sight of it. Neighboring hanger bay.’

A hand presses against the glass casing as he stares to the body inside, “Warren following after him, the oberon?” His breath draws taunt, leaning into his arm as it bends and rest, his forward arching horns bumping against the surface. Worry clings in his throat, swallowing it as his optical sensors fall closed.

‘He has, but is waiting at the ramp.’

Pushing out his breath T’viska forces himself to stand straight, hand still resting upon the glass. “We’ll take care of him… Knev,” he gives the surface a gentle pat… right over where the tenno’s face once lied beneath the organic fog. Taken by infestation. “I’m sure he’ll be a great partner for Warren… he really needs someone like him right now.”

Stood in embalming silence… the timer in the corner of his vision still ticks.

Once final time, he pats the surface. “Hope you found peace, kid.”

 

With a grunt T’viska drops himself down into the pilot seat of his liset, a hand reaching above as he starts to ignite the systems to start, setting them to reconnect with Suuir’s orbiter platform once more and begun the course back to the cephalon’s safety. As he flicks on the regional radar, he doublechecks the signal of the neighboring ship in the connected hanger bay, watching as it has already settled to depart – the copilot seat to his side sits empty. “Suuir, have you got a read on the other liset yet,” he calls out as he keeps his sights on the readouts before him, strapping himself into the seat.

‘They’ve received the beacon readout permissions, and corresponded positioning.’

T’viska crooks the hologram before him to sit wide, transmitting the ship signals forth as behind him the ramp snaps up into its locking pins, where it shudders and yawns before rising beneath the cephalon’s commands. Sat amongst the unbearable silence, T’viska makes up for it with a distraction, pulling up one of the many records seized from the orbiter as the liset sets to depart. “Will you destruct it once we’re cleared…?”

‘Void drive has been in partial meltdown,’ sits a callous remark, ‘it’ll implode once I disconnect.’

The loki’s maw flinches, “and you didn’t think it suited to tell me.”

Of course, Suuir says nothing, merely continuing the liset’s course out into the vast depth of space, ignoring the contempt that stings from the warframe in a sigh.

Just the same, T’viska brushes it aside and peers back into the somatic logs instead of letting his irritation simmer, distracting himself once again with the logs. Even though the cephalon’s affect remains flat and blunt, he’s aware the lack of acknowledgement wasn’t intentional on the cephalon’s part, too intent on salvaging the remnants of the other cephalon to make them aware of the danger posed by the systems Suuir was only aware of.

It isn’t the cephalon’s fault to lack the necessary precepts.

The liset barely nudges as behind he senses the other orbiter implode.

There’s a slight pull in the back of his mind as the void energies lash out, crushing and ripping itself apart with the void lashings. Neither brilliant, nor spectacular, it fades out of the radar and proximity signals. Gone in an instant and fed back into void tapestry.

T’viska brushes off the tangles that wrap around his cortex, signals abandoned.

Even then it stings in the back of his mind. Regretful.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -+- Kudos, sharing, and comments are encouraged! -+-


	20. Chapter 20

Once more aboard Suuir’s orbiter, T’viska leaves items on the liset, leaving them to be taken care of by the cephalon’s decontamination process in the meantime as he heads up towards the long-neglected modification system. He spots neither Warren nor the oberon as he walks up the ramp into the ship’s living quarters, his attention turned to his cognition systems as he glosses over the documents pertaining to somatic systems. How they can manifest outside the somatic cradles, the stresses that are involved with keeping the connection stable – the feedback he experienced on Mars still haunts him.

Frozen by will alone…

Snatching a rag up from the foundry system, he begins to wipe down the station just opposite of it in gentle grazes, brushing away the huffs of dust that clung to the metal surface, inside the gears as the cephalon brings it to life. Dumping one and replacing with another, the loki cleans up the station as the cephalon wordlessly tests the systems, the gears, the mechanisms deep within to prove its functionality. Wet wipes are chased by dry rub downs until the metal shines clean once more, reflecting the holographic screen as it springs to life.

“There we go,” the loki sighs to himself, disposing of the dust-clung rags. “Now… let’s see if I can make use of any of this…” his voice remains low, scrolling through the mixture of maxed and unranked mods that now sit within Suuir’s systems. A mix of amplifications to strength and efficiency, for anything from pain thresholds to quicker regeneration – very little that makes sense to the old warframe, so very used to just going without them.

He briefly tilts his head as Warren arrives in the ship’s upper levels, leading Kiln after him.

“So, finally have a use for that thing?” the teenager comments, too used to seeing the modification station as another shelving unit.

“Mhm,” the loki’s mouth presses into a line, flipping through the selection. “They’re usually too valuable to keep around for long… so whenever we came by them, sold them off. Easier to get by that way than to invest in such expensive things.” He pauses over a string of partly ranked modifications, duplicates with different system drains. “Why even have so many when one would suffice,” he mumbles.

A gauntlet hand reaches over and around the loki, the oberon’s bulk pushing the smaller warframe out of the way. Dark blunt fingers indicate over the selection within the modification screen, slow and meandering as he picks through mods of the duration quality, some boosters to health and energy, ignoring the stale of silence that drifts between them. Once finished Kiln finalizes the selection, pulling away to let the loki stand before it once more.

Staring down over the selection pulled up within the hologram, T’viska relays it up to the cephalon for later with a whispered ‘thanks’, on edge as the oberon remains in proximity, listening to the heavy steps that echo amongst the ship’s acoustics. It bolsters the oberon’s deep warning rumbles, only broken up by Warren trying to shoo away the pair of kavats drawn in by the scent of infestation.

“Come on, Kiln,” he hears Warren speak, directed to the oberon as he can hear the sparse whispers at the interested kavats. While he still leans up against the modification system T’viska turns his head to watch as the teenager leads the warframe down towards the showering system that doubles as the decontamination closet – he’s in need of one as well, he reminds himself as he shoulders himself back to stand, to follow after his son and the new crew member.

Shoulder leaning up against an interior strut, T’viska watches as Warren coaxes the oberon into the enclosed space. Their correspondence goes by silently, a communication made by contact of hand on wrist, emotional support eased through by the gentle contact between them. His attention moves from the teenager to the kavats that finally begin to dismiss themselves, picking up after the specks of infested matter that had dropped from the oberon’s open wound.

It’s a sigh that draws T’viska to look back.

“Kavat’s don’t mind helping out,” he partly chuckles, motioning his head over to where they clean up the oberon’s trail.

Warren looks over where the pair haven’t yet licked clean. “They do tend to… I’ll see about cleaning up whatever mess they leave behind,” his voice remains low, sullen as he steps away from the shower space. “Growth will need to be cut off… might just cover it up until I’m… ready to.”

“That why you sat in with him…?”

“Yeah,” Warren whispers, falling himself back against the wall across from where the system runs the decontamination cycle. “To make sure… nothing happened to him. He’s hurting a lot… might’ve blacked out.”

The loki makes a slow nod, arms crossing; his arm wraps are still in need of replacement. “Mind if I go next,” he briefs, “wraps need changing and don’t want to spread anymore of this stuff.”

Off to the side of his vision he can see the tenno tense up; on edge. Before forcing himself relaxed, “sure,” he whispers back, easing to stand upright. “I’ll change out and find something for Kiln then…” he moves.

“Hey,” makes Warren pause, T’viska leaning forward from where he remains at the wall. “Suuir salvaged the orbiter of any intel, I had him store it somewhere you can find it… has quite a bit about the somatic systems.”

Even though Warren looks back… he says nothing with the slightest hint of a nod. Acknowledgement, fatigue, drifting off into the residential chamber as he pulls off the scarf and jacket.

T’viska’s shoulders droop. His head falling back against the wall with a metallic dink once… then twice.

 

‘What if it makes him worse,’ T’viska questions as he steps into the shower chamber, where it seals him off from the rest of the ship and entombs him into the silence of his thoughts. In his vision the cephalon remains at one side, the other browsing over a document detailing the biological affects from somatic activity. Within the dampener chamber as the ship churns around him, he begins to pull off the wraps that once sat taut around muscles and tendons.

‘You worry a lot about others, T’viska,’ the cephalon sighs at the edge of his vision, concerned more with preforming the decontamination process and neutralizing the infested spores that cling to the warframe. ‘How long has it been since you applied an antiseptic?’

Stained arm wraps slowly drop down to the floor in loosened bundles, snaking around his forearms as he tries to roll them free, bright cyan vents blooming with energy. “I’m fine,” the loki’s mouth flinches, disregarding the shine of the wine-colored muscles exposed from his inner elbows to wrists. Sighing as the steam begins to build from the ceiling down, chemical bursts that tingle over his exposed skin as he strips from the rest of his clothing to be properly taken care of by the cephalon’s more in-depth cleaning systems. “Any tears have been long healed over by now,” he huffs.

‘Then why, of all the injuries you’ve taken, don’t they close up?’

There’s a pause from the loki as he settles himself to sit on a built-in ledge, “probably why I still got scars from the Old War.” Golden claws tap against the edge of a scar that runs over his collar bone, following it down into another that lines over his left pec – migrating from one side over to one that scratches over his right chest before it rests on the surface of the bench he sits. “Take too long to heal up… or running on reserves… and they just stay forever.”

‘So just another tally,’ the cephalon comments. The words of his intention not clear; but the loki is aware of the commentary, another physical mark upon his body, a tally system of things he’s experienced in his long life. The dark soft scar that mars his left waist to his lower stomach, the cross of massive scars on his left side that ends with the circling where his thigh was once rended clean open – that one took the longest to heal from, sat angry and frustrated as all he could do was wait as his leg slowly returned to his control.

“Just another tally,” the loki sighs, leaning on his knees as the chemical steam stings, a hand pulling up over his forward arching horns and pulling to cup the smooth crown of his forehead. “But, I guess at least with him around – Kiln – Warren won’t feel so alone anymore… neither you nor the kavats make the best of company.” He chides, “or me, for that matter,” he smiles.

It’s a smile that falters.

“I’ve not been a good father, have I?” T’viska heaves.

‘You’re doing your best, T’viska,’ the cephalon returns to the loki’s vision, ‘but one person can only do so much. Having another onboard eases the pressure on both of you, by my estimates. Lessens the load.’

T’viska’s maw presses into a line, glancing over to the side the cephalon portrays himself, even though his presence is tied to his optical sensors. “Not very helpful, Suuir.”

The polygons that make up the cephalon’s appearance surges, giving him a mild ruffled presentation. ‘Look, T, you can only do so much for him. And his somatic signature is a lot calmer than when you’ve left… there’s a connection there you don’t share with him… he needs some space. It’ll be good for him if you focus more on work.’

“What about the pain thing.”

‘What pain thing?’

“When- whenever I get struck by a bullet – when I get cut up or hit or whatever – he feels it. Anything that hurts me hurts him.” The corner of T’viska’s mouth flinches, “if there wasn’t that I would be a part of some corpus experiment – but whenever I get hurt, he gets hurt –”

‘He’s gotten used to it, T’viska.’

The loki sits quiet, swallowing a deep breath. Hands gripping up beneath his arching horns, “I know… but every time he dealt with it… it hurts more than me actually taking the hits.”

‘It always hurts,’ the cephalon eases, checking again the decontamination process. ‘But that oberon can help him recover in the way you can’t – he tended to the other operator in just the same way, he can help Warren.’

“I hope you’re right, Suuir,” T’viska breathes a sigh, reaching into the service chute for a rag to dab moisture from his skin. “It might be for the best to not let myself dwell on it, go on a mission and just clear my head, give them some space.” An arm drops down from where it rests on his knee, pulling up again and cradling beneath one horn. “I just… I can’t stop thinking about that operator… Knev. I’ve come across those that have worked with those aligning with the Lotus, and the rumors I’ve heard.” His breathing eases as he listens to the chute churn up again, gifting a net to dispose of the soaked clothing sat on the floor and the damp rag.

‘Sickening, isn’t it,’ Suuir speaks in the silence between, a pause crafted as the loki’s motions are slow.

T’viska throws the bundle of fabrics into the chute, granted with a replacement set of leggings to cover the scars that line his two-toned legs; many he received from tenno weaponry. “It takes years to get that bad,” T’viska whispers, mouth turned into a snarl.

‘There’s a counterintelligence mission close by… would you prefer something else?’

Stepping out into the ship’s hallways the conversation goes into pure signal connection, wandering up into the workspace up the ramp. ‘That’s fine with me, set up two others on top of that,’ T’viska responds, checking the modifications that Kiln had suggested earlier. He can feel them burn in the back of his brainstem, a surge that breathes through his spine and veins as the modifications are installed to his software tissue. The energy well deepens as he tunes in the maximum ranked modification, transferred to him via the cephalon’s connection to the ship.

‘Counterintelligence, extermination, and research sabotage?’ The cephalon questions.

‘Counterintelligence, research sabotage, extermination,’ the loki corrects, copying over the template manifest from the cephalon, ‘research sabotage is close to the extermination point. Will be easier to get in then slaughter the personnel after I can confirm the sabotage. Less alarms that way.’

‘Of course,’ the cephalon adjusts the planned trajectories within the ship’s systems and the warframe’s optical overlay. ‘Departure in 30 minutes, still a fair distance to the outskirts.’

“Fine with me,” the warframe rolls his shoulders, moving himself over to the workbench and picking through the weaponry he had salvaged from the other orbiter. Things he’s not sure the make and model of, nor if he even has enough ammo for; something to worry about later. He tucks his trusted euphona into its holster on his hip.

Instead of heading straight to the hangers below the loki turns back to where the residential chamber sits, his steps careful and steadily at ease as he walks in, peering over from the door frame to make a visual check on the tenno and the taller warframe that easily sits in sight.

Just past the platform that divides the upper and lower portion of the landing Kiln is bent over, sat hunched on the cushioned bench with his arms leaning upon his knees heavy and exhausted. A hand idly reacts to the curious green-eyed kavat that keeps drawing herself around the strips of fabric that wrap around his center, the bandaging that restrains the infestation beneath and squeezes his gut tight. The simmer of a growl rumbles through his chest as the creature tries to push her head between his forearm and thigh, not even receiving a secondary glance from the tenno. Despite not moving from his positioning with head crested down, the warframe remains attentive to the tenno knelt nearby.

Occupied by the centerpiece feature of the ottoman Warren exhales, his gloved palms slowly dropping to let the arboriform branches fan back down and rest freely. Growth like a young fern, pieces of the glowing plant scatters the surface in small shavings, portions pruned to let the young plant have room to thrive as well as it can within the small container – in dire need of something better.

Drawing in a breath the tenno falls back onto his ankles, his somatic sight transfixed on the glowing foliage he’s grown despite the frantic activities, the nervous tendencies, the blinding self-doubt and the panic attacks. Its presence soothes through the teenager’s nerves as he stares, a small smile drifting over his face as the tightness in his brows soften, as the tensions in his shoulders go lax. Hands cupping over his wrist as thoughts turn into peaceful visual meditation.

Beneath them the orbiter shuffles, a minor motion that relays the loki’s departure. And the teengar’s sight falters down to the datapad that rests just beneath where the jarred arboriform sits, shed covering the structure and obscuring the data displayed.

As Warren’s features return to its default nervous hesitation he picks up the device - brushing free the diminishing foliage remnants that have already begun to lose their shine, glow fading and dimming into a chilling dead-tone grey. He holds the device flat on his lap as it displays information of both arboriform and void, the synaptic connection between them detailed and expanded upon in streams of translated text. It draws him to frown, browsing through it once again.

“I’ll be right back, Kiln,” Warren sighs.

Pulling himself up from the floor the teenager abandons the device on the bed, walking himself up the stairs to the upper landing as his hands dig around the back of his neck, pulling through his furl of hair as his eyebrows press tight. Palms resting against his face as his back rests against the wall outside the doorway.

What is he to do about the infection on Kiln’s side …?

A gloved palm pulls through his hair again as he looks to the opposite end of the hallway, to where the medbay he’s well aware is still partially in disarray, where it stinks with antiseptic and where the wall panels are resting where they shouldn’t be. Where he’s had to disconnected and reconnect and manipulate the sensitive equipment out of place for a complete disinfection at a later date… he pushes himself up from the wall, crossing over to where the air burns his nose with the stench. The mix of fumes forces him to pull up the scarf around his neck, tightening it around his nose and mouth as he steps inside.

Half cleaned but out of shape, the other intact but rife with infestation; he still has a way to go if it will ever be back to a sterile state. The short steps that edge to the glass platform remain clear of the debris, an island amongst the ruin and illuminated brightly by the lamp that used to be for the sloped exam chair that once sat in the middle – dumped back into genetic material like all the other pieces of the metal turned flesh.

It’s not the best place to perform such a task…

But it’s better than dealing with the kavats.

“Suuir,” Warren sighs, walking out of the medbay and towards T’viska’s work bench, “I’ll be using the medbay to get the infestation out… I’ll need some extra fabrics and some numbing agent. Need alcohol to sterilize…” his voice trails off, pulling out the portion of spira blade that he since tucked between two of the storage containers. Pocketing it as he heads towards the hum of the foundry.

Once the items are set aside along one side of the steps Warren forces himself to stand.

He swallows the hesitation that seizes his throat as he moves from one end of the hallway to the other, mulling over his words and thoughts as he recites brief sentence fragments to himself – stopping short of the door. Phrases left behind in Knev’s logs pull in the back of his mind, drawing him well aware of the empathetic qualities of the somatic link, how warframe and tenno can ease other’s pain, neutralize it, contain it.

Warren yields himself forward, pushing himself to move around the upper landing and down the steps to where Kiln has still remain static and unmoving.

“Kiln,” he whispers, leaning down from the end of the stairs, waiting for the oberon’s head to turn.

It doesn’t.

“Kiln,” he tries once more, “I want to try and get that infestation out… can you follow me, please?”

With a slow, meandering breath the oberon finally begins to move. His heavy shoulders roll back as his hands curl around the edge of the cushions, pulling legs up and beneath before he stands to his full height. Over two meters tall he towers over the teenager that precedes him, and in the bright light his colors shine bright in rust, scarlet, and navy, toned by the scuffs and the dulled metal.

Neither of the kavats follow them into the medbay, the door locking behind warframe and tenno.

Kiln is silent as he looks over the supplies Warren had collected, wandering himself over to where the examination chair once sat – his side turned over to where he assumes Warren would sit.

But Warren’s frozen, hand dug into his pocket where the grip of the half spira blade rests.

The oberon doesn’t look back from his half-turned position, barely moving as he only breathes in his position of exposing his wounded side – where the fabrics are stained black and blue by the mash of infested tissue.

‘Do it,’ speaks into Warren’s thoughts, startling him.

“Kiln-“ he halves his thoughts, grip pulling around the blade’s handle. “Are… you sure you’re ready…?”

‘I can ask the same of you,’ the oberon’s voice is slow, mellow within the teenager’s head as he forces himself to sit off to the warframe’s side. ‘You’ve seen war…the old war?’

“Yes,” Warren keeps his voice low, preoccupying himself with undoing the makeshift bandaging that keeps the infestation against the oberon’s body – mouth drawn into a grimace as it droops free. “I’ve… I rather not think about it.”

The warframe sits quietly as the fabrics are moved down to the glass that makes the floor of the medbay, staring over the filter feeders that live beneath them. “I see…” his voice rumbles, half coughed as it hurts to speak through ailing lungs.

“Does it hurt to breathe?” Warren asks, holding a hand on the warframe’s back to initiate a temporary link – still uncertain how the warframe communicated without physical contact.

‘Yes,’ the oberon sighs, listening back as the tenno moves over to the supplies – winching as cold liquid touches around where the infestation festers from his skin. Relaxing as the muscle and skin becomes numb.

“This should help before… I start cutting into it,” Warren swallows, careful to encompass the entire area with the anesthetics. And a second time he traces around the infestation that has burrowed into the warframe’s body, his hand shaking. “I… I don’t know how long it’ll take, so I got some of those energy restores, so you can heal out some of the deeper stuff.” He offers a condensed stack of the energy restores, along with a glass of supplemental alcohol Suuir had suggested to ease the pain – the ones T’viska would partake in.

‘Thanks…’ the oberon’s voice remains low in the teenager’s mind, taking the offered items and setting them down beneath the lip of the platform. ‘You remind me of Knev… they’d offer as much as they can, even if it’s hurting.’

Warren’s mouth draws into a line, brows squeezing as he looks away from the warframe. The infestation, he has to focus on that as he pulls out the half spira blade to be sterilized.

‘She hadn’t care… but Knev would take care of us, as much as they could.’

Kiln doesn’t flinch when the blade cuts into the infestation along the corner of the wound.

‘They only blamed themselves when we got hurt, that they wished they did something differently.’

Warren keeps his eyes on the wound before him, slowly and carefully cutting around the festering flesh, his gloves the only protection his hands have.

Kiln sighs, ‘I was the one that helped them when they couldn’t help themselves. And I failed… I have nothing.’

Warren’s mouth presses a line, swallowing a knotting in his throat. “But they had you there with them, and that had eased the pain, even a little?”

‘They hurt just as much as you do now, Jacob Warren,’ the oberon breathes, never flinching as flesh is carved from his side. Picking out an energy restore to bolster his healing factor. ‘Stress, it kills. And now it hurts as I have nothing to look towards. They’re gone.’

“I’ve… never said my name to you,” his nerves sing erratic, hand trembling.

‘Your somatic signal… I can read it.’

“If you can read it, without touch, without transference… then what am I feeling?” Warren ignores the sting in his eyes.

‘Fear… regret… remorse… and lost. I know it all too well.’

Warren’s façade cracks, mouth twisting as he elbows tears from his eyes. His focus intensified, glaring down to the wretched infested wound.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -+- Kudos, sharing, and comments are encouraged! -+-


	21. Chapter 21

Feet hitched up beside the jarred arboriform flora, he flips through the documents displayed within the datapad; browsing over the logs of missions long completed, past the manifests of stolen cargo and intel long logged into a cephalon now made null. The remnants of Knev’s crew etches into the teenager’s mind as Suuir quickly translates the multitude of languages from the ruined crew and those unlucky enough to face them… where the ghost of a masochistic trinity rift with infestation forms in his mind, a single warframe that leaves countless bases ravaged of crew.

‘Astivara…’ the oberon’s voice whispers through the air.

Warren doesn’t look up from the datapad as he browses through the ones designated to the singular warframe’s somatic signature. A string of enigmatic code Suuir corresponds in colorful symbols and letters. He flips through the countless mission reports, eyes catching the aggressive description, reports by sparse survivors. Never healing, always killing.

‘She was only satisfied in a mission completion… couldn’t work in a group.’

“Why not?” Warren whispers, still fringed on the tail-end of a panic attack, his voice hitching, “was it the infestation… and did it lead to-”

‘No,’ the oberon sighs from the other end of the room, laid back against the wall beside the glass monitor view. ‘Knev kept that at bay, but Astri was an EV; strong, but not good for healing.’

“I see…” the teenager curls his legs up onto the cushioned bench, looking through the sheer amount of information that was held within the historic directory. “The ship’s damage…the infestation, was it all from the collision…?”

“I see…” the teenager curls his legs up onto the cushioned bench, looking through the sheer amount of information that was held within the historic directory. “The ship’s damage…the infestation, was it all from the collision…?”

Kiln’s shoulders droop against the glass, shuffling so his bandaged midsection presses against the cold glass that rumbles with the orbiter’s engine pulses. ‘Mostly… all orbiters have a flaw in the helminth system, where the growth overtakes the ship itself when it reaches the nervous system.’

“Nervous systems… the arboriforms… like this plant?”

The oberon glances over, easing a sigh through one and a half lungs, ‘yes. They’re the nervous system of Orokin era ships, a craft now long left to time. Like so much Orokin era technology, we only gathered scraps.’

Warren browses through the myriad of content, pulling the blanket tighter over his form. “Had Knev… kept any documentation on the infestation…? Surely, to deal with it, there had to be something.”

‘Barely; the Lotus never divulged such information, so we were on our own to treat Astri’s affliction.’

Finding himself at the null cephalon’s manifests again Warren looks up to where the oberon rests across the room. Biting his lip in concern he idly browses through the once restricted documents; on the infestation, about the dynamics of the somatic systems, the intricacies of the arboriforms and their connections to the void itself. Warren’s barely even scratched the surface on any of them, even with Suuir curating through them to find the most relevant to connect the ones within his own systems. “I see…” he holds the datapad against his chest, head falling back onto the surface behind him where Crenshaw laid sleeping.

Silence transpires between them once more as the oberon rests against the wall, stroking his gauntlet hands through Rhubarb’s faded coat. The kavat had long curled herself up against his side, cradled into a crooked arm that pats at her rump as she sleeps.

“Kiln,” Warren leans onto his knees, setting the datapad off to his side to look at later, “the… somatic link, transference… how much do you know about it?”

‘Just enough to get by,’ the oberon’s voice whispers, laced with exhaustion as he tries to pull away from the cold surface that keeps his open side numbed. ‘Normally I cannot communicate like this… never with Knev. Yours is unusually strong… I don’t even have to concentrate…’

It draws the tenno’s brows to tighten in confusion, concerned. He forces himself to sit up, picking up the datapad as he moves over to the bed.

‘Your energy signature… it’s that of an Unairu,’ A breath sighs through the warframe, ‘not many chose it…’

Warren yanks blankets around him as he shrugs up into the back corner of the bed, resting up against the cold metal wall as the datapad rests over his huddled legs. “I never had a choice… I was either sat up in a somatic cradle or in the isolation chambers…” paired gloved fingers scroll through the hologram surface, tapping him into the collection of somatic connection documents. Defragmented manifests that hold a majority in tenno, fragments in other solar languages, and even fewer sat drenched in untranslated Orokin – Suuir apologizes.

After a moment as he takes pause Warren opens one of the lengthy Orokin language manifests. He can still read it – he’s barely thankful for his first language.

But it’s only a mild comfort as the once settled silence becomes taut as it continues to persist where he thought there may have still been conversation, some acknowledgement of being bounced between the blaze of neurons and forced isolation. Had he said… something wrong? Was it an uncomfortable response to someone that once worked for the Lotus? He pulls his thoughts back to the datapad, scrolling through a general disclosure given to him by Suuir that outlines how to search through the vast library they have since gathered. Unairu; it’s all he wants to search.

His head snaps up when he hears the oberon exhale – just asleep, Warren sighs in relief. Taking pause.

“I’ll ask later then…” he whispers to himself.

He browses through the vast catalog of information that basks inside the cephalon’s systems, huddling himself back against the wall as his gloved fingers scroll past sections and highlight choice passages to return to down the line. Where tenno text proclaims sorted focus schools that testify to structured learning environments, attributes categorized and divided into five to hone their abilities for those touched by the void – Warren flinches, unable to recollect such a thing. No tenderness lingers in the back of his thoughts as he remembers the newly fashioned somatic cradles; placed inside the sensory deprivation before it pivoted him into war.

Pulling a hand through his hair Warren grimaces.

Was this a crafted lie…?

Further he reads on; where the sheer vastness of information begins to overwhelm him with the precise details. The aspects of unairu rings through his thoughts as he tries to push pass them; hardy, durable, better able to endure the stresses of transference and retain somatic connection with resilience to transferred nervous pain – holding his stomach tight as pain surges between two bodies as his remains fine, he trembles as he reads on. Why doesn’t he just stop – he tries to stop himself as words still catch him as he scrolls.

Only able to stop as he leaves the document for another.

Not a crafted lie… it’s a portioned truth.

The datapad pats onto the blankets at his side as he lets his head fall back against the wall. Squeezing his eyes closed the teenager sighs, pulling his hands up and over his face to drag. His void corrupted fingers catch themselves at his exposed teeth at the left side of his face, gently brushing over the gums before they linger there, staring off into the ceiling. Swallowing his breath once, Warren sighs.

In the interlay of his thoughts he drifts from thinking of the oberon on the other side of the room to the ever-ghostly presence of his adopted parent, his concentration bolstered by the brief prickle of pain that dances over his shoulder a few moments later. In a mission, he can surmise as his eyes fall close, turning his focus towards the loki by the barely lingering pain that has already begun to fade as his breath eases. To himself, he’s not even sure why as his brows draw tight on his brow, his hands falling onto the bed – body gone lax.

Within something clicks, and the pain in his shoulder bursts.

He tries to reach for it, keyword tries as the pain still exists as his eyes snap open, his hands still left at his side as he hisses in pain.

Looking down – his body won’t move.

A spark of panic.

And then he’s thrown forward as his nervous connection reignite, gripping his arm against his chest and leaning into his pulled legs as the datapad clicks and rattles down between the bed and the cushioned bench.

Warren sits with heaving breath, staring forward eyes sat wide.

Across the room Rhubarb glances at him.

Crenshaw hops up onto the bed beside him, crawling up to his side as her head brushes against his face and then butts him to the side. Her bright green eyes stare at him as he swallows down the brief burst of panic, pushing herself between his torso and arms. Or at least tries to before she just settles down at his side, her wide tail flickering at one side as her head wiggles between the blanket and his hip.

“I’m… I’m okay Cre,” Warren swallows, untangling himself from the reflexive huddle, the kavat pushing him away from the wall. It forces him to move down the bed, stroking her brown tan fur as he draws himself to rest against her side. “I’m okay…” he whispers, resting his head onto her side as she shuffles, pulling herself to rest her head onto his knees. “I’m okay…” he lies.

The kavat huffs, her tail flickering against the teenager’s back.

 

Warren sighs as he rights himself before the glass panel, ignoring the weight at his side as his hand motions in the empty air between the surface and himself. Document titles and by-lines linger on the hologram surface, setting the room into the bind of dust yellow glow as the lights sit dim. Far behind he can hear the oberon shuffle in his sleep – the tenno’s attention remains on the screen. Subjects infested and arboriform sit outlined in the space, notations and summaries written up in the tenno’s dual language handwriting. A representation of the nature of the branching nerve endings sit off to one side of the wide display, an image of the jarred arboriform, its branches sprouting and reaching up towards the ceiling off-center of the room behind him.

With what he now knows, Warren’s index and thumb write down an attempted conclusion – no reliance on circuitry in Orokin tech, that the intelligence is not artificial, the cephalons; he brings up the orbiter’s schematics, the core blooming with void energy. The engines rumbling as they sit idle. The sensors alert for any shift of the grineer vessels around them – hidden only by a void cloak.

‘The arboriforms are nerves,’ Kiln had told him… and from as far as he knows, doesn’t lie.

Nerves for a body – a nervous system has no use outside a platform for a body, to have senses and remain aware. The orbiter’s systems a meld with circuits and wires – ones that only connect short platforms to bolster the arboriforms that direct the rest of the ship.

He falls back onto his shins, once knelt before the screen.

“Suuir,” he starts, looking over to the side as the cephalon appears. “Am I… right in my logic?”

‘As far as I know, kid…’ the cephalon pauses. Warren barely smiles at the text of ‘kid’. ‘Yes, the orbiter is my body, currently.’

“And you can hop them… seeing as you were with us on the infested one… and have control over dad’s liset.”

‘Indeed,’ the cephalon draws back, completely vanishing from the oversized view. ‘Just don’t go around fiddling with anything.’ And he leaves Warren alone with a kavat lied against his side. Departing to tend to mission interference.

He takes a moment to look over the scrawling he made upon the digital surface, where he’s eventually dawned a connection between arboriforms and infested – but it’s only faint, a mere suggestion he drawn from the fact arboriforms can become infested, that the cephalon aboard the now voided ship was horrendously corrupted inside and out, the admittance from Kiln that the Helminth system eventually becomes faulty… He pulls up a highlighted file up from the many he had minimized, picking through them with hand gestures alone.

Helminth system supposed to be a stabilized iteration of the infestation and manage the regenerative properties of…. Warframe or Tenno…? He questions inside his mind as he bites his lip, glancing back to where Kiln lies sleeping. Rhubarb has never once left his side; her head lies over his bandaging.

Probably due to the smell of infestation – Warren snorts.

Gently he eases Crenshaw’s head from his lap, rolling her off to the side as he pulls his legs up beneath him, nearly standing up immediately if it weren’t for the numb wobble as he leans his side into the glass. With a sigh he makes a gesture to close the informative display down, eyes waiting closed for the blinding light as it returns to its external display - and the visual confirmation of the numerous Grineer ships that surround them.

It’s with a chuff does he force himself to stand, sight eventually drifting open where they clench in the strain to adjust after hours spent in dim lights.

Kiln doesn’t stir as the teenager steps over his outstretched legs, wandering up through the upper landing as the door to the residential chamber hisses open. “Suuir, medbay door,” he sighs as he crosses the hallway, pulling his scarf up over his face to protect his gums from the chemical sting.

But it’s not quite enough to keep it off his tongue as he walks inside, enduring his eyes clenching as they strain to welt tears. Not from infestation, but from the stench of antiseptics and the harsh chemicals that cling to the inner surface of the room. Ravaged of its wall panels and sat gutted, he turns with a cough. “Should’ve been enough…” his breath muffles, “but to be sure… hit it again, Suuir.”

One final sterilization.

As the doors whisper shut behind him Warren takes a newfound breath of the mild cabin air – and coughs before he has the chance to tear his scarf from his face, lungs seizing in the aftereffects of the cephalon’s cleaning cycle. He leans on his knees as his lungs shudder, fist balling around his scarf as his chest surges and his head hangs tired. Exhausted by the process of removing the malicious infestation that had taken over the medical bay; but he’s almost done, he smiles, looking over to his side.

Canisters sit snuggly within a crate to his side, items marked in tape and pen that had either once sat within the room behind him or seedpods to transplant when the cephalon was finally done. A bag of mulch feed sat slump against the box; supplies he read off the manifests taken from Knev’s orbiter, items that are essential for a combat ready medical bay… including suggestions by Kiln.

The oberon is waiting for him as he walks back into the residential chamber, still reclined at the base of the steps that connect the landings together. “Any news…?” Kiln whispers, still slightly hoarse as a lung remains only half healed.

Warren drops himself onto the cushioned bench, leaning against his knees. “Medbay’s almost cleared up… dad found some of those seedlings you mentioned earlier while you were asleep.”

Resting on his round horns Kiln rolls his head to the side, looking over to where the external display shows the surrounding ships.

“Dad’s on patrol,” Warren sighs, “intel recon. Good pay, but dangerous.”

Kiln rumbles in acknowledgement, a gauntlet hand pushing himself up from the wall lean as he tries to pull himself into a firm sit – only to result in a flinch as he leans into the arm holding himself up from the wall at his back. Attempting to move again, he grunts. Pained.

Warren pulls himself towards the side of the bench, “might be time to change the dressings, make sure its healing right.” Moving to stand and kneel at the oberon’s side.

“Sure,” the warframe’s breathing hisses, exposing his bandaged side to the tenno as he leans up against the step at his opposing hip. “Diagnostics; lungs at 87 percent,” his breath huffs, a rattling through his barrel of a chest held tight by the fabric wrapping – the middling slightly staining in color. “Energy reservoir,” he sighs as the metal latch snaps off, “around 64 percent recovered. Half set capacity.” And the following exhale wheezes through into a minor whistle, air blown through resorting flesh once held tight by the bandaging that held his midsection together.

There’s a twitch in Warren’s lip as he pulls away the bandaging, wrinkles pressing in his features as the smell of gore waifs from the oberon’s now exposed muscular systems. Where there may have once been digestive organs all that remains is an ill conglomerate bronze tissue, forming a basis for the structures that once resided. “Hold on, let me get something to clean this up,” the tenno balls his gloved fists into the fabric gauze and pressure wraps, stepping over the oberon’s legs to head up to the foundry to dispose of them.

On his return he has fresh new packaging, cradling the medpack under his armpit as he rips open a manufactured energy restore. Something to offset the agony as he works. “Here,” he offers, leaving it beside the gauntlet fists leaning onto the step.

“Thanks,” the oberon shivers, keeping his attention adverted as Warren kneels at his right side. And even when the initial sting of numbing agent touches exposed tissue and muscles, he barely finches, frozen still as the tenno works.

“Looks like its regenerating well,” Warren sighs, his hands gloved in sterile latex. Index and thumb press against the peak of the wound sight, inspecting the motions of a still healing lung. “We’ll give it a couple more days, and hopefully it’ll heal up without any complications.” He leans away, picking into the medpack for a sterile gauze pad. Once its ripped open he dabs it with a mild antiseptic.

“Probably will scar,” Kiln exhales, barely flinching as the fibers brush against his muscles and exposed tissue.

The teenager quietly apologizes, brushing away crusting debris. “Looks like it,” he sighs, leaning away to open another sterile gauze, “sorry about this… can’t be too sure if there’s any infestation left. Best to still treat it with caution.” He takes his time cleaning away the firmed blood from the edge of the healing wound, careful as he brushes away the crusting debris. Dead tissue, blood, and pus stain the gauze as he leaves it on top of the stack of packaging, out of the way. With another he wipes the gloves clean of the remnants, picking out a thick round bundle of gauze held in sterile packaging just after. “The helminth system is offline; Suuir’s almost completely sterilized the medbay. Hopefully once that’s back up and working we can do something more about the scars.” He faintly smiles, waiting as the oberon pushes himself to sit upright, arms pulled up for him to wrap.

“Unlikely,” Kiln sighs, “had it for a while… organic components have scrambled.”

“How long were you like that,” Warren holds the gauze at the warframe’s back, pulling around completely once before he pulls the gauze briefly, making sure it sits partly snug and stable before he pulls around again. Leaving enough room for the oberon to breathe.

Silence hangs between them as Warren finishes the initial bandaging, following it up with compression bandaging.

“Months,” Kiln eventually exhales. “Cephalon kept wandering off course, and never got back on after the collision.”

Warren keeps himself adverted, pulling off the latex gloves before bundling the ‘disposal’ pike he had previously set to the side within one. More fuel to be composted down into their base components within the realm of the orbiter’s reactors; to be processed into useful materials once more. Snapping the shell of the small medpack carrier closed he moves from knees to feet, stepping over the oberon’s outstretched legs to leave him to recline against the wall with a sigh.

At the workstation that lines the opposite wall of the foundry he sets it down, one of many he’s long pre-prepared as he leaves it to dispose of the latex wrapped garbage. On the shelf above the surface others sit stacked, the soft-shelled metal an easier access replacement that sits well beneath where T’viska has been storing their medical supplies – a baggage cache the teenager pulls down with a grunt, heaving it down onto the surface of the modification station.

Snapping open the medpack once more, he resupplies the gauze, checking on the level of the antiseptic and marking the level with a pen before he sets it away. Setting it amongst the others as he lugs the cache back up on the ledge over his head.

‘Hey,’ whispers.

Turning his head, he finds nothing.

Warren disregards it as a misheard engine exhaust, the occasional hiss through the orbiter’s systems.

Stepping back into the residential chamber he returns himself to the cushioned bench, dropping himself down with the datapad in hand. Left on the last catalog he had been browsing through, the nature of the orbiter’s innate and benign helminth infestation. Words of offering to contain a malignant spread to sensitive vital systems, how to right them and control it once more – isolating it until it stabilizes.

He leaves it at his side, kicking his legs up onto the ottoman as he looks pass the display opposite of him, wondering as the hair in the back of his neck prickles – the ever seeing black of space stares back. Drawing in his breath he glances over to where the oberon is resting, thoughts riddling with questions that have been dancing in the hind of his mind. Tentatively, he picks the datapad back up, scrolling back to the notations about transference within the vast library of information.

Warren pauses, taking another slow breath.

“Kiln,” he swallows, looking over to the oberon again.

The warframe doesn’t shuffle from his recline but exhales a sigh. Mild confirmation.

“Transference… what do you know about it?”

Kiln sighs, hands crossed over the bandaging around his gut. “There’s a lot... and your somatic signal is strong enough I know you’ve experienced a lot of it… what part do you want to know about?”

“I mean… the whole direct transference stuff,” Warren shuffles, turning himself down to the datapad, “I’ve only used the cradles… those fucking things, and the chair in the chamber in the hallway.” Warren’s lip flinches, briefly pausing as he scrolls through the archive. “They’ve… the Orokin, kept me in connection for long periods of time… and when I wasn’t connected, I was always recovering from it. I can’t remember for how long… or how many I did connect to.” His mouth presses into a line, turning into a grimace. “I mean… they had me connected until the bodies, the warframe I was connected to, died… and every time I was pulled out I was put into isolation… I don’t understand what all the focus school and Naramon or Unairu means because it was me and the arboriform things I only ever knew. And the guards; rarely were they ever kind.” His grip on the datapad firms, slumping in his seat. Said too much, said too much, he whimpers inside his thoughts, wanting to turn small.

The oberon’s breath sighs deeply, grunting as he forces himself into a better sitting posture. “I see,” he bellows, their sight never meeting. “Most of those records are from Margulis’ sect; the ones she cared for personally. The lotus… I never trusted her even though Knev had, she was the only family they could remember after the incident after being separated from their sister. Could never remember her…” He heaves himself to sit again, winching as the bandages squeeze around his center. “The lotus holds all the records we gathered, there’s only so much we’ve been granted; so better to not relay on them too much,” he sighs again, blowing an exhale as he settles again.

“But, knowing what you’re already capable of does make it easier to explain; that the cradles don’t hold the somatic signals but just amplify them. And since you’ve engaged in the war – that’s a lot of signals to contend with. Any idea of your age at the time…?”

Warren shakes his head, “I just remember being the oldest out of the facility… fighting to try to protect others from the guards, trying to get them out when I can… some of them died because of me.”

Kiln draws silent; thinking, head resting back against the wall with a shallow exhale. “Somatic signals get stronger over time and use, and it seems younger ones learn aspects quicker even though it still takes practice to use outside the cradles… but it does get to the point of being able to use outside of it. How long have you been trying to perform it…” he pauses, rattling through his memory, “how long have you been channeling the void.”

The teenager looks at him, confused. Kiln brushes against the wrist of one gauntlet hand.

“The glow, you’ve used it to get the medbay open… how long and how frequent?”

Drawing himself smaller, slumping within the cushions Warren stares out into the distant space. “I’ve… sometimes used it… but it’s always when I’m angry, or scared, or panicking…” he whispers the final, “last time… I think I hurt dad with them… I was crying and … and he stopped, like a statue.”

To the side the oberon falls silent.

“Transference is an emotionally, powerful thing,” Kiln breathes, taking himself to sit on one of the steps instead. “Considering you’ve warred at a young age, the strength of your signal, the emotional outbursts are understandable to eventually happen. It can take a toll on your body, if its not controlled, qwelled, it can become a dangerous thing. Your father, T’viska, knows none of this?”

“He… knows of my abilities, about transference and all that… before we came across your ship I had to save dad.” He pauses, recounting, “I was cleaning up some clothing, finished up working in the medbay when he got… hit by something, and I had to stumble to the chair. He couldn’t contact Suuir – our cephalon.”

“You feel transference pain outside it…?”

“Often… but I’ve gotten numb to it.”

Kiln pauses, “for how long?”

“Since he pulled me out of Lua… that’s where he got the scars on his forearms. From saving me.”

The oberon sits in silence, they both do as the air sits stale silent.

Warren burrows himself into his scarf and jacket. “I shouldn’t have asked…”

“No, it’s fine. Better lets me understand how to explain the complexities to you,” the oberon sits forward, looking over to the tenno. “The scarring on your left cheek… is that from back then, during the war?”

Warren holds his hand over the scarf at the side of his mouth. “Yeah… I was too loud, obnoxious, so they silenced me with a mask… dad got it off me… tore up my face.”

“Mhm,” Kiln sighs; grunting as he forces himself to stand. “There’s a lot of pain attributed to the transference process; I take it. Sympathetic connection retaining outside the somatic cradle, having a strong somatic signal from enduring long durations, but emotional outburst are all that express it.” He moves over towards the wide expanse across from the cushioned bench, “meditation might help,” he glances over his shoulder.

The teenager sits paused for a moment, hands fiddling with the datapad before he pulls his legs from the ottoman, dropping the datapad beside the blooming arboriform. It wavers as he passes, offering to sit on the platform before the glass display; to sit mirrored face to face. “Knev… did you learn to assess that from them?”

“From helping them, yes,” the oberon draws his legs to cross, sitting shoulders lax. “Daily, they needed to meditate and shut out the signals bombarding them, it was only with the cephalon’s precepts that they barely made any progress without assistance.” He exhales as he waits for the teenager to settle, “we’ll try on me, I can better process what we’ll need to do to stabilize them.”

“Oh, alright,” Warren shuffles himself to sit on his knees, staring down to the oberon before him – their sight level.

“First, close your eyes,” the warframe bellows and exhales, “concentrate on your perception of me – what I appear to be, what you last seen. You cannot see the signals, but I can,” sighs, “Once you connect to my neural systems, I will tell you.”

“Is it really that easy,” Warren asks, letting his head fall with his eyes.

“No, but it is practice. It only lets you see and feel – motor control is much more difficult, and physical apparition is so much harder.”

“Is that when someone can transfer through…? I’ve heard broadcasts of it… people jumping out of warframes,” eyes held shut he tries to imagine the towering oberon in his minds eye, searching and assembling with memories.

“Indeed, it is. Without the Lotus’ interference, many would not be able to, as she gives them the comforting lie to free them, the Zariman events, what Margulis did for them.” A mental prodding edge at the fringe of the oberon’s transference bolt, the center point of the somatic connection. “You’ve almost got it, Warren,” he bellows, “concentrate, and you’ll connect to my bolt. Just breathe.”

“The pain in the base of your neck,” Warren questions less, swallowing another slow breath.

“All… most warframes have them; I cannot explain why.” In the oberon’s optical sensors the teenager’s somatic signal blares, straining to connect in full. “Breathe with me; in,” his chest barely inflates with air, one and a half lungs pushing against the bandaging, “and out.”

“I’m trying,” the teenager whispers, lip flickering with mild irritation, one he settles just as quickly.

“Don’t think of trying,” the oberon exhales, “just focus on the image, the signal, and breathe.”

“Alright,” Warren sighs, brows scrunching for a moment before he quells the mild irritation, the mental struggle that he settles with an exhale. Drawing himself up to think of nothing but the warframe before him – not interfered with by the breath coursing through the orbiter’s systems, nor the shift in the engines beneath them or the echoing hum.

And once more the space falls silent.

“You’re connected,” Kiln eventually declares, keeping his optical sensors shut. “Somatic signal is stabilized – somatic signature code 4-4-6-9-7-6-6-9-7-9-6-f-6-e-6-9, optical sensors connected, vital sensors at set to nominal,” he breathes, and Warren doesn’t feel the wrapped wound as he breathes. “Nervous systems on sympathetic, nervous control disconnected. Now,” he pauses, easing his optics slowly open, guiding the transference connection into retention, “open your eyes. What do you see?”

Still looking down to the floor between them Warren’s eyes slowly fall open, his bright yellow somatic interlays blooming within his pupils as he freezes – not seeing the floor below him. Nor does his view shift when his body looks up – his sight as a mirror, observing himself through the warframe as not astral projection. He can see how his eyes glow and pulsate throughout the somatic link, backlit by the space behind him as light reflects from the patrol of grineer ships, where the edge of saturn’s horizon glints and the breath of the rings roll above them.

And he can see the twitching in his features, how the scarf drops from his face to show the bared teeth and gums of his left side – and tears himself free, stumbling backwards as his sight returns to his own eyes, falling back against the glass. Nerves shaking and blaring as he scrambles back from the warframe as the somatic connection breaks off and makes the oberon hiss.

It hurt him, Warren’s mouth twists as his brows draw taut. Breaking the connection hurt him – he had felt it, just like how he felt the brief pain. Warframe to Tenno to Warframe; the pain spreads? He nearly crumbles, pulling himself tight as he stares between his knees, apologizing beneath his breath.

“It’s alright, Warren,” the warframe shakes off the transference static, a rattling in his neural system. “It surprises everyone, seeing themselves from another’s point of view.”

“But,” Warren’s voice almost cracks, swallowing it down, “it hurt you… I didn’t think it’d… my dad…”

“You worry that your interference, your somatic connection, hurts him?”

“He has scars on his arms because of me,” his lip twitches, hands pulled around his knees, “and, and whenever he gets hurt I feel it even though it’s gotten dull… the other day when he got struck on his mission I felt it and I cracked my head against the floor – what if he felt that when he already had his broken arm and blunt impact and all the other stuff on top of it? Does pain get transfer from tenno to warframe?” His fingers wring against his leg, pulling tight.

Kiln can feel the somatic signal lashing out, “no,” he sits firm, “only the transference static – when a signal is cut before its ready to. Sympathetic pain does not transfer from operator to warframe, the tenno receives the pain, not grant it out.”

“But is it possible,” Warren twitches, looking over at the oberon. “Is there any chance it does.”

“None that I know if. It’s not something to worry about in your state to be a possibility.”

Warren sits quiet, staring.

Kiln sighs from where he sits. “I don’t know what exact things you have endured with transference; with the Orokin’s war till now, but there are set examples for its limits. As I know it.”

“I was to just shut up and do as I was told,” Warren snaps, “that’s all I’ve known. To endure my stomach getting blown out and the warframes I was once attached to being pulled from me and left them to die. I can’t possibly remember how many; I’ve talked to all of them, they’re all the connection I had after the Zariman.” His mouth draws a line, brows scrunched and crossed.

“Do you remember it, the Zariman incident,” Kiln houses his interest into the back of his thoughts.

“I remember all of it – dad was offered a trip to Tau, they needed someone like him. How the void lashed out against the plating, how the food supplies dropped and how everyone was panicking… my father’s body. Burnt and beaten,” his lip trembles, eyes searing with pain. “And when they found us… all of us, I was alone, I stayed away from the rest of them because they scared me. They rounded the adults up, killed them, drifting through the bloody hallways and torching everything…”

“No other family…?”

“Dad spoke of mom… but I never met her.”

Kiln falls silent, keeping himself still in place. “You worry about abandonment… and being a burden, is that right…?”

Warren almost laughs, pained as he swallows his breath. “Maybe… or I’m just too fucking scared of my own shadow.”

“You wanted to help others after that; you don’t want others to hurt like you have. What the Orokin have done to you in that time is cruel, just as they ever were, but it does shape you. What you do with those memories, the pangs of neglect you’ve suffered, you can move past them once you come to terms with it,” Kiln sighs. “What you do with void prowess is your own choice, to control it takes time and patience, just like dealing with trauma. Its easier to lash out… hurt those around you and regret afterwards; especially when you feel overwhelmed. That you don’t have control of everything.”

“How do you know?” Warren almost laughs; not out of humor, as he swallows the swell in his throat.

“Because Knev was the same… haunted by the demons of their past.”

The room falls quiet, ebbing only the distant rumble of the orbiter’s engines, the breathing throbs of the ventilation system that chills around them. Neither of them moves from their spots; Warren’s back against the glass, hands crawling up to his face as he holds himself from the trembles threating to crash over and swallow him whole – wishing he’d just disappear, his form flickers.

Kiln reaches out, taking an arm. “Warren,” he cautions, “it’s okay to cry, letting it all out is healthier than trying to keep it all down.”

“I know,” the teenager hisses through his teeth. “I’m just… tired of this, you know?”

“I do,” the oberon slowly removes his hand, “we can work on this over time, but for now just get some rest.”

“I just… want to be worth something, it,” his voice breaks from a clench in his jaw, “I had to convince Suuir to find the ship’s signal… one of many infested cephalons out there. That’s what he told me… not worth the time, can’t save everyone… but I wanted to do something, and we could’ve gotten there sooner and –” Kiln leans over, offering a hug the teenager latches back, fists pulling tight around the warframe’s neck. “I’m happy to at least save someone, but… it’s not enough, it’s never enough.”

Kiln pulls back, “every life is precious, Warren. Whatever you manage to do is worth it, it is a struggle, but a struggle well worth it. Speaking out is hard for someone that has gone through what you have – I do not have any memories before this body, or if this is my own body, but not having personal control is terrifying. Now,” he moves to stand, flinching from twisting his wounded side, “get some rest, distract yourself for now – we’ll continue practicing transference in a couple days.”

Warren sighs, pulling himself back to his knees. “Right… don’t twist up that wound, either –“ he pauses, watching as the oberon moves past the bottom step “where are you going?”

“The transference chamber, I need to commune with the ship cephalon… their name is ‘Suuir’, correct?”

The teenager nods, wiping away spots of tears with a nod.


	22. Chapter 22

As he leans up against the sidewall just beyond the residential chamber’s open doorway, T’viska watches the paired silence from the lower landing. Listening towards the gentle rumbling breath of a much larger warframe sat across from the equally as silent tenno… both within the depth of meditation he figures. Hinged at the edge of his sight and out of theirs he picks through mission possibilities that begin to rack up, ones caught from the underlying radio chatter by Suuir as he scrounges through the depths of the Lotus signal weave. It’s only through a masking of their own are they able to snatch up fresh assignments as they’re granted – but there’s only so many they can do without detection, already on edge at the prospect of Lotus dogs at their heels.

‘Suuir,’ he calls through the mental link, sliding aside the possible job listings from the Lotus assigned channels – pulling a hand up to a healing crack in one of his horn he winces, pulling his hand back. ‘How long have they been sitting there, doing that?’ He looks at his hand, the golden digits clicking against another.

Eventually the cephalon’s polygons pop into his sight, transponding within the strings of text as his processes compare the possible mission sequences. ‘Hours, why?’ the cephalon’s words illuminate between the mission descriptions, near scattered in the readout before they defragment. ‘They’ve been doing it for a while; have your concerns?’

‘No,’ the loki lies with a sigh, shuffling to lean with his arms crossed as his head falls back. T’viska pauses, parsing through his thoughts as the cephalon returns to sort through the racket of possible assignments, fetching missions only slated for one participant – better to buff that they swiped their encoding frequencies for an orbiter cast to the void. He can still feel the bitter sting in his side the last time he had encountered one of their agents – given, it was on neutral ground and just a passing swipe. From beneath his crossed hands his right hand grips his side… he can’t even remember what he did to receive such blunt retaliation. Again, he sighs, shouldering himself into the wall.

‘What have they been up to…?’ passes from warframe to cephalon.

‘Practicing transference,’ the cephalon states flat, picking through the ‘pegs’ of missions the loki is to run once they arrive in orbit above Europa. ‘The oberon has connected himself to the somatic cradle manually. Still gives me a hell of a headache sometimes,’ he muses, slotting the capture of a high-profile researcher above sabotaging their work – at least what they can find of it.

The loki goes silent once more, staring up at the ceiling as he listens to the engines humming against his back, as the numbing tone plays through the quarter’s speakers and quell nervous senses into serenity as the distant screen houses a gentle view of a martian beach. Half of him wishes to rest, fall asleep as his joints still ache.

Suuir pings his cognitive circuits, ‘you going to run these or not, T?’

T’viska shoulders himself from the wall with a sigh, ‘yeah, I’m going. Get the ship setup for the descent.’

Down on the lower landing neither tenno nor warframe move; mirroring each other in the silence barely broken by the hydraulic hiss from the doorway. Legs sat crossed, arms resting against thighs and held together in a mild cradle – their heads are downcast, closed, merely taking in the mild hint of the room with every breath. At the oberon’s side lies the healed wound that once was the location of infestation, bands of dark scar tissue exposed to open air as the much larger warframe sits across from Warren – the bridge between them a meld of minds, stabilized in the silence.

Though held in the somatic link, where the tenno channels his thoughts, senses, and meshes motor controls into the oberon, Kiln speaks freely – still in control of his own body. ‘You’re holding it well, Warren.’

‘How much longer do I need to hold it,’ vices back, in his physical body Warren’s brows squeeze – no such nerves exist on the warframe.

‘Just a little longer; there’s been less cognitive slips than last time, you’re getting better at it.’

The teenager’s body sighs – mirrored into the oberon’s as a deep rumbling that reverbs off the wall. Dug into the depth of somatic restraint exercise he can feel the weaves of power beneath his fingertips – beneath the oberon’s gauntlet hands as he stretches through one body into the next all while remaining motionless, silently sat in place. Where one body nervous system disconnects into another, the threshold where his body becomes another’s without a secondary thought as the tones of the martian beach plays in the background of his mind – detached from his surroundings.

‘You ready to try the motion again?’

Warren nods – even though Kiln can’t see it he can feel the signal calling through his own. Slowly, quietly, the transmission of motions crawl through the oberon’s arms, down into his heavy palms and tingling through his fingers. Ever so carefully as he buffers the signal, stabilizing it as the tenno drives his concentration down into single nerve endings – Warren guides the fingers to steeple upon where they rest. And pause.

‘Good,’ Kiln speaks through the somatic connection, ‘continue.’

Just as smoothly, without looking up at the motions across from him, the tenno begins to raise the oberon’s arms, holding the palms still in a peak as the fingers remain in contact. Between his palms power begins to whorl, ebbing out a gentle glow within the presence of the prime’s innate energies before they dissipate – hands pulled away as they move to hold square from shoulder to shoulder – raised in the air as the tenno remains in the leaning sit. No flinches, no nervous twitch, progress.

‘Now, stand,’ the oberon’s words hitch. Mentally stepping back from the interlay as he slips out of his wires and nerves, observing as the tenno remains stationary while his body begins to move. One hand against ground his body sighs deeply in the methodical motion, uncoiling heavy digitigrade legs as one leans against the ground, the other finding placement sat onto hock. And, just as every slowly, the oberon’s body stands to full height, barely feeling the spark of faulty transference connection. A wrist shakes mindlessly as shoulders roll forth, a spark of disconnected nerves surge and make Warren wince.

In the silence the oberon’s body breathes deep, stretching out joints and limbs, looking to the martian beach overview – and body turns. Nerves become firm; tendons drawn tense in a matter of suggested restraint. He keeps pushing, forcing through the buffers, somatic single focused down through temple and spine as he walks the oberon’s body to the view – looking back to where his body remains sat – where the bare toothy scars are illuminated in the light.

‘Do not,’ Kiln warns him, tempting a pull through the transference bolt, squeezing his own throat in the nervous connection.

Warren pauses within Kiln’s body, frozen in place yet not granting control back.

‘Warren,’ the oberon briefs, ‘let it go.’

The tenno’s mind slips into hesitation, just enough that Kiln can wrestle his senses back from the operator, turning back to where the teenager sits on the floor beside the ottoman. Motionless, not looking up when the warframe sits himself down across from him again.

And his mind seizes still, frozen once more. ‘Warren,’ he growls to the silent teenager; and his body is pushed up to stand, nerves trembling in the internal fight for control as the tenno remains silent and still. One step after another his body is forced to the steps leading to the upper landing, until the oberon disengages the somatic connection, shutting off the somatic single as he storms back over to where the teenager flinches – still not looking.

“Why did you do that,” Kiln partially growls, half kneeling onto the floor, watching the downturned face look off to the left – towards the window.

There’s a pause, a breath of space before the teenager sighs, looking back downcast. “I don’t know…” his words hitch. “Guess I’m just… frustrated,” pauses into a sneer, holding a hand into his face. “It… doesn’t feel like I made any progress. I’m not doing what I’ve down before… without the cradle boosting me.” Hands cradle face beneath the furls of hair, obscuring the traces of frustrated tears, the quiver of drawn brows as he leans onto his elbows and thighs. “I just… I don’t know,” halves a sigh, a hand curling up onto his well corrupted arm exposed by his tank top vest.

Kiln, with a sigh, returns to his position across from the tenno. “It’s not your fault, tenno, all that have endured the cradle have gone through the same thing,” he stems, “It merely boosts signals, amplifies them, focus them. Without it, it’s all with mental willpower.”

Warren looks up as he still holds his head in his palm, letting the scarred, bared gums and teeth return the glance. “It doesn’t feel like that,” he grimaces, tears cresting over what remains of his cheek. “It’s just… the whole insignificant feeling, you know? Get told I’m worthy, that I was put through so much shit and,” he settles his face back into his palms, easing through a sigh, “just to go through it all again… like what I did before meant nothing.” He scratches away the strum of tears, snarling as he wipes them into his pants. Grimacing. “It’s just… a lot to deal with, you know?”

“I understand, Warren,” the oberon exhales, “what they’ve done to you affects you even now, the hurdle it takes to deal with it…”

“I’ve been dealing with it since I’ve fucking woken up,” the tenno snarls, “I don’t want to be told that it’s okay, that I’ll get fucking over it, I just –” he pauses, nerves rattled in the attempt to scream. “I don’t want to be told It’s okay, because it’s not okay. I’m not fucking okay and I just want that to be understood… that’s all I want.”

Kiln sits in the silence, watching as Warren fights off the tears, pulling himself together.

Halted, faulty in his ability to empathize even as concern draws through his thoughts. Unable to find the words, trying to keep his tone from forced, “what they’ve done is wrong; what they’ve done in the past is obscured, but from what remains it was wanton cruelty. Leading everything into exhaustible pity, only useful for their own gain… bodies thrown in folly.” Words remained hushed, half speaking and half talking to himself. “What happens after… either burying the past or it weighs on shoulders.”

Warren parts a laugh, head still held in a hand, uncertain to what ends the oberon speaks. “Yeah, and I’m stuck with memories of the fucking Zariman – there’s barely any mention of it in the manifests.” A sigh stems, pulling himself up to stand as he brushes tears into his pants once more. “I’m going to walk around for a bit, check to see if there’s any infestation poking around anywhere. I’ll be fine,” he nearly huffs, stepping himself around the ottoman and avoiding the oberon’s concerned grip, slipping through the doorway and into the main hall.

Watching after the teenager, the oberon remains still. Shoulders dropping with a sigh.

 

It’s hours before the teenager returns to the residential quarters, dropping himself down onto the cushioned bench, kicking his feet up onto the ottoman beside the glow of the arboriform ‘sapling’. To it he stares, somatics transfixed as he brushes away the grime clung to his cheeks – a staining made by space particulates that hung in the hanger air and his own exhausted teared sight. The room retains comfortably quiet – the oberon nowhere to be seen, having already passed by the towering warframe on his way back into the quarters without a murmur or secondary glance.

He shrugs himself down into the cushioning, then pauses, and pulls himself up to sit, lifting the arboriform plant from its perch and hoisting it up against his gut. It cradles on his lap as he kicks his feet up again, staring down upon it with sullen eyes, mind ran numb from the rampage of thoughts now ran silent. Exhausted, worn out; a hand reaches up, stroking a wind of a branch, watching as it barely quivers beneath the contact before it returns to neutral state. Living, but at the same time sedentary – it parts his mouth into a sad smile.

Just like him.

In the view across from him he looks back, raising a hand up to alternate it into another view, diminishing the serene martian beach and turning it back into the depths of data the cephalon manages. Where catalogs of knowledge remain held in the reservoirs of the ship’s memory banks – Suuir’s memory banks – to be recalled as they are needed. As one hand holds the jar close the other motions through the network, sketching in the word ‘arboriform’ into a field search within the realms of the historic manifest. Digitized views scan through the massive bank, where only a few have been left unexplored, lost among things he’s already long read as his own service research brings up first, where he’s linked the scraps form the vast web into one.

Fingers quest through the observable hologram, parsing through the manifests for scatters of data, through the observation logs that mesh with the orbiter’s systems. Where he can see the rhythm of the void coil drive pulsate through the slight adjusting engines, sensing through the arboriform system to keep them well in orbit and invisible to the corpus sentries around them. Out of sight and out of mind, he drives into the logs pertaining to the enigma of the void, leaning into the engine pulsations, the orbiter’s ‘lungs’ made by the intertwine of wire and the glow of nerves.

The void…

The void.

He can still see it lashing out against the observation view that shown down overhead, held up onto steady shoulders as he watches the white energy thrash, whip, fight back against the Zariman’s hull where it begins to creak under the stress. But the shell is too strong, more durable than any other ship in the system – his father had said as they once sat in the lobby of a hub terminal. Watching his father pull on the jacket that marked his status – was it black and silver, white or gold, dust brown fabric with copper trim…? He can only remember the old traces, what’s left aside from the trauma and terror of the Old War.

His shoulders slouch, reading through the sparse documents – only twenty entries when he cut down the Temple of the Void crap.

A majority, only just a single paragraph ached with speculation and mystique.

“Don’t you wish that was you; endless, always observant…?”

Warren whirls around towards the voice… or where it would have been. Setting the arboriform down onto the ottoman he looks over the platform dividing the upper and lower levels of the room.

Nothing.

He snarls to himself; just imaging things.

Throwing himself back to the bench he turns to the screen once again, picking through the remnants left from the now dead cephalon’s logs. It lists the several trips it had taken to the void, so noted on its travel logs where it was to jump from one of the system to the other, much faster than their current methods of methodical cruise.

Yet, there still lies the danger as he scrolls through the measurements Suuir had since set aside, an event log listing out the turbulence it had endured each time the former ship leapt into the seemingly endless black – at least what he can remember from the Zariman.

No stars.

No beacons to tether to.

Adrift… alone… quiet.

His brows tighten, taking the jarred arboriform into his hands once more, setting it on his lap as his legs kick up onto the ottoman again. The thought of it is almost… comforting, if it wasn’t for the burning recollection of being dunked into the isolation tank structure of the somatic cradles. Where he had been burdened with another’s words that burn into his skull, to submit and obey, to do as he’s told less he wants to endure another tongue biting pain in his cheek for disobedience.

It wasn’t visible… the excuse. His mouth snarls, bare gums and teeth left exposed beneath his curled hair.

Hands fidget with the plant.

“You hate them for what they’ve done to you,” the same voice pipes up in the back of his thoughts… his own.

Intrusive thoughts, he excuses, shaking his head as he tries to return to concentrating on the opposite wall, where the text remains less than useful despite the numerous records of Corpus and Grineer entering the Void Towers – mission logs from the former cephalon’s manifest. But how, his thoughts question, burying himself between his shoulders, scarf slumping around his nose and face.

“They all deserved to burn, didn’t they…? The Orokin.” He pulls his hands over his ears, squeezing eyes tight. Just in his head, just invasive thoughts; his breathing trembles, fingers trembling as he holds his head as a nervous buzz crawls through his thoughts. Too much thinking, calm down, turning into a blaze and straining against nervous sensory overload –

The door behind him slips open, “Warren.”

He whirls around – and his nerves are brought calm as he sees it’s just the loki, the sightless face stares back with energy seams split like a pairing of four eyes, walking around the dividing platform with a trace of… concern? With a casual handwave he closes the cephalon’s processes to the hologram, returning the room into saturated light. He remains in place as the loki steps down onto the landing, pauses, and then steps forth again, sitting down on the bench with a softened exhale. The teenager shuffles, sitting himself up with the arboriform still held within his gloved palms. “What is it…?” he almost huffs, still teetering on edge as he buries his face into his scarf.

Tension hangs in the air, nerves hung firm.

“Just, seeing how you’re doing,” the loki looks over, leaning onto his knees with an exhausted sigh. “Since I’ve been… busy the last couple weeks,” a soft chuckle leaves him, “been a while since I’ve been able to relax.”

“Oh,” the teenager looks down to the arboriform in his lap. Pausing, “So… I take it the infiltration has been going well, Suuir keeping you busy.”

“Quite,” the loki laughs, shrugging off a mild sting in his shoulder, where a lining wisp of energy seals a wound firmly shut without the barest trace of a scar. “Those energy pad things have been keeping me topped off between assignments… keeps me from being worn out but there’s so many missions out there.” With a snarl in his lips he turns to the opposing glass pane, out towards the view of surrounding space. On the move again.

Silence drifts as the loki eventually pulls himself back to rest against the platform at the bench’s back, sighing a deep exhale as the hum of the orbiter’s engines moves through the structure. “So,” he starts again after a few minutes, glancing over to the teenager, “Kiln’s been helping you with the transference stuff…? How’s that going.” They’ve passed each other on the ramp between the upper structure and the lower hangers.

Slowly turning to ease once more, Warren rests against the backing, still cradling the arboriform. “It’s… going well I suppose. Have to learn how to do everything all over again.”

“Oh,” the loki looks back to the screen, motioning to raise a hand but… hesitation stops him, curious about the contents the teenager has been reading. “I take it that it’s… been frustrating.”

“Yeah,” Warren sighs, a lip barely twitching as he pulls himself away from expressing resentment, from lashing out. “It takes… so much concentration without those damn shells… makes me feel useless. That everything I’ve done before was a fluke…” He snugs the jar against his stomach, pulling his legs up one after another, trying to force down his words… biting his lip.

T’viska sighs off to his side, arms pulling up to cross. “Now that’s not true, Warren. Just… it takes some getting used to not being… how you once were.”

Warren goes quiet, staring down at the gentle flickering foliage held so close.

The loki’s shoulders droop. “Mind if I… use the bed for a bit?” he asks, exhaustion still tracing through his nerves. “There’s a high-risk mission coming up… I’ve not gotten a bit of rest since we entered Europa’s orbit.”

“Sure,” the teenager whispers, still staring down at the plant. His lids lie half open, watching the gentle bob and sway of the plant.

T’viska’s mouth presses flat, uncertain of what else to say as he moves to stand on tired legs, worn out from running over hot corpus pipes, dashing through grineer halls beneath the threat of bullets to the back, from crashing down into foliage as he made his escape only beneath the sanctity of his cloak. He crashes down onto the bed with a grunt, shoveling the collection of blankets over to where the teenager sits on the cushioned bench. He doesn’t need them, as he curls up back to his adopted son, head cushioned by the worn surface… he notes down on his internal logs to find a new one, next time they come across a relay…easily slipping into sleep.

After a time, Warren eventually pulls himself from his rumination, looking back up to the endless emptiness that sits through the external camera view. Off to his side he can hear the loki breathing… sleeping, he checks as he leans over, pulling the blankets around him before he once more takes the arboriform into his hands. He cradles it beneath the dark fabric, blanket hooding over his head as his vision turns downcast once more; thinking, wondering about what he’s to do when the transference exercises are through… when he’s able to transfer body to body… is that really what he wants to do…?

Shuffling off a blanket he holds a hand extended out before him, holding the arboriform against him with his other as he contemplates, reaching out to the distant glass surface where space displays. Where the light and lack there of divides between his fingers, shadows obscuring the definition of his gloves as he stares into the darkness… he concentrates on it, brows drawn in as his hand is brought to tremble.

Off to the side, the loki’s hand raises to follow the motions.

Still within the depth of sleep, hauntingly unaware as his arm is guided to hold perpendicular of his body, slowly drawn back and held before sleeping face with the meshing of somatic nerves. It sits a mirror of Warren’s motions as he looks upon it, brows held tight in thought, mouth pressing into a partial line as he sighs… and drops it to his lap – looking over when he hears an arm flop against the bed, a drop brought by the disconnected concentration.

“You don’t deserve anything,” the voice returns as he looks back to the glass, “you’re only slowing them down… a BURDEN.” It hisses in his thoughts.

Warren, as quiet as he can, keeps to himself the stinging in his throat, eyes drawn tight.

Looking down to the sway of arboriform white.

 

It’s hours before they reach their destination.

Suuir attempts to pester T’viska through his cognitive sensors, already posting the paired sabotage and rescue they’ve since undertaken in-route to the outskirts of Ceres’ solar region. Without much luck he gives into the burst of a short auditory alarm to rouse the sleeping warframe; where hands scramble in confusion just as quickly, grasping at the sheets as the scrambled audio scratches through his neural array. He curses, he grunts, dropping himself to the bed for a moment as he contends with the cephalon. ‘Give me a moment,’ he cuts back, looking over as he raises an arm curiously – draped with a dark blanket.

‘I’ll ready the ship for departure,’ Suuir cuts back, vanishing from the loki’s sight.

Pulling himself to sit up T’viska glances over to where he thought Warren was – but he’s sat over by the external view window, his shape a smudge of black in the dark inner chamber. It’s with a sigh that the loki pulls himself from the bed, throwing the blanket once draped over him onto the cushioned bench – making note that the jarred arboriform is sat back on the platform divider.

Quiet steps move over to where the tenno lies sleeping. Kneeling down, T’viska rounds his golden clawed hands beneath the tenno’s shoulders and knees, hustling the teenager against his chest before he lifts, and stands.

There’s a moment of silence as he adjusts his balance, looking over where long worn out tears stain a half-covered face. The loki grimaces, pauses in thought, and turns. Carefully he moves back to the bed, leaning a knee down against it as he lies the teenager down into the sedentary comfort. It’s not much, but as well as they can so far afford between the payment of repairs and ammunition.

He steps back, picking up the other blanket and lies it over his sleeping son.

‘Suuir,’ the loki calls over through the commlink, picking back through the mission details. ‘Can you give me a recall to what he was last looking at?’

‘Just some details on the void,’ the cephalon calls back, preoccupied in analyzing their approach. ‘Why?’

He walks up towards the back of the room, glancing over at the jarred arboriform sat clear in view before he turns away to walk through the door. ‘Anything in particular…?’

‘He had glanced at the prior cephalon’s event records, had some interest in the interception with the void.’

T’viska’s mouth presses into a line. He walks over to the foundry to replicate some last needed supplies, “I hope it’s just interest in system functions,” he whispers. Ringing up the amount of energy restores he needs, the loki turns over to the modification station to double check those applied to his system, taking note of the new minor boost to his cloak duration as he slips his trusty euphona at his side.

On a whim, as he walks down the ramp to where the orbiter’s hangers connect, he makes a short detour, directing himself towards where the oberon’s vessel resides. Peaking in and stepping inside, he easily spots Kiln resting beneath the battle worn liset, reclined beneath the exposed tailfin engines. “Hey, can I ask you a favor,” he calls over, measuring his approach as he closes the distance, “could I have you remain in the upper portion, and keep an eye on Warren for me?”

A casual nod is enough to calm T’viska’s nerves.

 

White seethes into his eyes as pain digs sharp through his spine.

Laid up against the oberon’s side he coils himself tight, gasping and shivering as he tries to grip the blisters of pain that surge through the sympathetic somatic link. Even as large gauntlet hands hold against his spine, as waves of focused renewal are directed straight to nerves, he shudders under the endured stress, biting back as he feels metal scraping against muscles that are not his own. “Fuck,” he shivers, eyes wound tight, curling against the oberon in needing comfort.

Dumbfounded, all Kiln can do is buffer the transference pain that still latches to his own transference bolt, focusing and taking a fracture of the pain from the distant loki into his own in the shared suffering. Barbs wound against a side, scrap metal splintering out of body and legs; the grotesque echo of an explosion that sears at skin so far away – something’s obviously gone awry; horribly wrong as he tries to reach out to the cephalon with words – a call for mission report goes without a reply, trying his best to dispel the pain of the writhing tenno within the same neural decree.

As grineer scrap metal scrapes at spinal tissue the teenager flinches, trying to shoulder away the pain as an eye strains to squeeze open, mouth turned to a snarl. “Suuir,” he grits through his teeth, “fucking status report… hologram.” A gasp and coil as another round of metal scratches through stomach, the exit site laid at spine.

Succumbed them into darkness the cephalon coats the glass screen, and the tenno pulls himself to look back – arms dug around his gut as he can feel the loki pull out shrapnel. Event logs dance across the screen – an explosion, an oil tank ruptured aboard the conglomerate vessel and threw the warframe hard off course. ‘Two energy restores left,’ the cephalon notes in casual text – but its feverish, jumbled as the polygons surge from the digital representation. ‘Core has been set to blow; I don’t know if –’ the cephalon parts. ‘There’s still time,’ he corrects.

Warren can feel the bloom of the energy restore reach through the somatic link, a minor buffer that merely dulls the sensory of open wounds, an ebb and flow that soon negates the bruising, the broken bones, the cuts and scrapes and what else are just minor. But it’s not nearly enough, his concentration burns as he rolls himself to try and sit, head craned over towards the screen as the oberon’s hands try to reach to his back, pressing the glow of energy into his spine. Mental focus strains as shrapnel digs against muscle, fragments that lied beneath skin that require dangerously more time as he can feel the painful prick of claws trying to dig them out from surface level healing. “Won’t work, won’t work,” the tenno feverishly mumbles, stomach crunching as a sharp shard rips free. Another, from side and stomach.

There’s a lurch; feeling claws cupping over mouth as his own hands grip at his throat.

Barely thankful before the surge hits his own body; and vomits.

Coughing, gaging on evacuated digestive matter, the teenager staggers away from the spattering, smacking away a concern hand. Again they try to reach over as they ebb with renewal energy, but once more he elbows them, fists glown with void energy strikes back. “Get your hands off me,” he snarls between retchings, brushing a glove against his face as his mind continues to race – the transponder, where is it? His head whirls, shoving the oberon away as he charges to stand.

Snapping up the device from the platform divider his fingers fumble, curling the receiver around his ear as the pain chases back through the transference connection – unhindered by the oberon’s interference. Warren stumbles as he tries to pull himself to stand, holding the transponder against his chest as he snaps it on, choking back a cough. “Dad,” he tries to speak – voice in merely a whisper till he swallows, “Dad, I’m coming to help!”

Static surges through the transponder – signal flickering in and out of synergy that holds a vice in his throat. “Stay up there, Warren!” eventually crackles through.

Warren lurches as he feels bullets riddle over spine, where the blooms of an energy restore barely makes a dent in the overwhelming agony that bleeds over the somatic floodbank. As he cradles his stomach, hand held against his shoulder as grineer shrapnel ammunition shreds at skin, a hiss quivers as he tries to stumble up to his feet, wobbling and swaying as he sidesteps Kiln’s attempts to stop him – seized in the blaring of the teenager’s transference signal and frozen still. Works lie caught in the oberon’s end of the signal – muted against the aggressive surge as he can only watch as the tenno stumbles up the steps to the upper landing, crashing against the wall and staggering about into the open halls.

Head burning in agony, blaring through in focus and lack there-of, he forces himself to chase up the ramp towards the foundry, collapsing against it and coughing, near gagging as armaments cut through into torso once more. Long having abandoned the transponder he punches in for the system to produce more energy restores, languishing against it as nerves coil and spring, neurons firing off and making his body tremble as he endures the stumbling sensation of knee busting against a bulkhead, shaking away the weight of a nearby explosion. Void energy bleeds through his fist as he rolls it against the foundry system, eyes squeezed shut.

At the click of the receptacle opening he seizes the container.

Half in confusion and half blinded by pain, he staggers back into the middle of the cluttered room; half between the foundry and the modification systems he affirms his stance, one hand on his stomach, another clutching the container filled with ten capsules of energy restores – his eyes squeeze shut. Trembling, shivering, he can feel the loki fighting through the relentless onslaught of gunfire. The smell of sulfur stains his tongue as he forces himself to concentrate, concentrate on the flow of muscles catching at the edge of a ledge and pulling self over a barrier.

Where beneath a cloak muscles burn through the rigors, as blood sprays with each over arching stride and dances over worn metals as they pivot one angle into another, chasing through the hallways, leaving grineer dead in the wake by the flurry of euphona shots. He can see them as he opens his eyes once more, watching, observing in the line of sight as T’viska lands on a grineer – executing at point blank.

He doesn’t flinch; and crashes himself through.

Warren can taste the sulfur as he gasps beneath the stumbling roll, a hand gripping from his stomach to the floor as his mind shunts in the physicality of it – full transference through and through jolting into the back of his thoughts. His head snaps up to where the loki has remained knelt over the grineer corpse, spattered in grotesque red and black, so much that claws reflect dull in the low light. Stunned, the warframe heaves, staring back to the bright somatic eyes that pulsate in return. “Wa-Warren wha –”

With as much strength as he’s able to muster, Warren forces himself up into a kneel – still well aware of the blare of alarms that swarm his head. It rattles his shattering nerves as he becomes deathly calm – coaxed into nonverbal as his auditory and sensory attention are overwhelmed, shaking as he snaps off the lid of the container – shards making him wince, his eyes sit heavy as he tries to look to them.

Not twisted… not pulled…

But broken, fragments dug into his gloves. Glass tracing out blood.

“H-Here,” is all he can muster, shoving the container to T’viska as his mind surges half coherent, hands fumbling until bloody palms catch them, words ringing into his deafening ears. One energy restore is picked from the busted container, thrown down to the floor by fidgeting fingers.

And the floor is the last thing he can remember.


	23. Chapter 23

The first thing he can recognize is his fists balling into the sheets, fingers edging numb against the fabric as shoulders strain to pull upwards in the haze of consciousness. Lulling through the motions, he’s barely able to pry his eyes open, squinting out into… fabric, head covered, head throbbing in pain, his arms flop numb as he tries to grasp it, pushing it away from his crusting sight. Arm dropping onto the bed, beyond it he can barely make out the room, obscured by kavat hind quarters and tail. Warren can make out the faint blue that pulsates beneath skin and fur – Rhubarb. “Rhu,” he fumbles, his first pushes weak and uncoordinated – answered with a mild growl in return. “Rhu, move your ass,” Warren growls back, trying to pull himself to sit with a hand held against his skull.

The pain continues to throb.

“You’re up,” a voice notes beyond the kavat, and Warren barely pulls himself to look over to the side, leaning up against the resting kavat, hands held into fur.

“Hmnn,” he grumbles, fingers prying against his face as his eyes squeeze shut, forcing out the light shining off the distant screen. His memory catches up in the space before he’s ready to speak – pulling himself out into an active mission… leaping through from mind into body. His elbows still tingle with the echo of scraping against ruined metal. “Yep…” is all he can muster, burying his face into Rhubarb’s fur.

A sigh trembles through into the kavat’s fur as the silence begins to sting, buffered by the out-of-sight movement and the ambient hum of the orbiter’s engines. The mild tone wavers beneath the surface area of the ship as his fists ball into Rhubarb’s fur, sharing a huff as thoughts are chased back into resentment.

He’s a fucking idiot.

It takes a few taps on his shoulder to pull him away from the kavat’s comforting fur, his eyes still stung with crusted tears. A gauntlet hand offers him a canister, steam seeping out of the top. He takes it as he adverts his eyes, not willing enough to look to the oberon. “Thanks…” is all he can whisper, moving away from resting on the kavat, sitting himself over at the edge of the bed with the blanket still draped. Back turned to the presiding warframe – he can feel him outside his sightline, read the movements as he leans on his knees as he takes a sip of the hot fluid.

Soup… it’s bland on his tongue.

“How’re you feeling, Warren,” Kiln asks towards his back, settling down onto the cushioned bench and not anticipating much of a response.

“You shouldn’t have done that,” a third voice creeps in the back of the teenager’s thoughts. “Now look what you’ve done.”

Warren’s brows only tighten, staring down into the canister of bland soup; basic, without seasoning or spice, flavorful in only ways the same dehydrated flakes he’s long gotten used to. And takes another sip.

“You pushed them away so much, you know that?” The voice echoes his own as he takes another slow sip, staring out into the endless space beyond the glass display. “But of course you do – it’s not your fault… they’ve pushed you too much, it’s only right to push back.”

He can sense the oberon leaning on his knees, head downcast with a mild sigh. In the static air he can tell the warframe’s signal is reaching back into the cephalon’s; a conversation he’s not privy to. And that’s fine, he tells himself, trying to guide his attention.

“You feel like a burden, don’t you, Jacob?”

Warren tries to push the paranoia from his thoughts as he thinks over the connective system, how the glass before them displays the many aspect locations of the space around them. Upper, lower, how it adjusts to the pitch and yaw as it coaxes through space, how the engines keep the motions gradual beneath their feet and how the gyroscope keeps their orientation even, how the gravitational unit keeps their weight even. He takes another sip… mind lulling with obsessive thoughts. Anything to pull away from the whispering sense that claws in his mind.

“Warren,” he hears Kiln speak, not moving from his position. “There’s a relay nearby, would you like to go out for a bit?” There’s no acknowledgement that it’s been longer than the general 40 ‘day’ cycles that have passed them since he’s first come aboard. 40 days since being rid of the infestation that had taken the oberon’s health out from under him… There’s the hint in the oberon’s voice that he wants to go without leaving him behind… Warren can’t tell if it’s the apathy.

He sighs, taking the final gulps of his soup. “Sure.”

“T’vis-” the oberon starts, then halts. Warren flinches. “Your father transferred a list of items we’re in need of. Ammunition, medical supplies, the like along with some more specifics.” Kiln moves to stand, “we’ll use mine,” and he only walks to the edge of the steps, looking back to where the teenager is still sat on the edge of the bed. The oberon’s shoulders droop, concerned.

Something Warren cannot sense as he can only tell the oberon had stopped, waiting for him.

He sighs, rolling a shoulder to shake out the bit of numbness still testing at his nerves, bouncing a leg to test the strength… he doesn’t want to land on his face again. “I’ll be there in a moment, Kiln,” he calls back, head hanging down against a palm, two fingers holding the empty canister as he waits.

He wants to be alone… but not abandoned, not passed over.

The door to the residential chamber whispers shut.

“It’s just for your own good, isn’t it? Keep you placid, keep you sedentary.”

“Shut up,” Warren growls, leering over his shoulder.

The only entity in the room is Rhubarb – the kavat stares back at him from where she’s resettled on the bed.

He holds a hand to his crown, fingers pressing hard against his skin. Rubbing. “I’m not going crazy,” he grimaces, “it’s… just a fever. That’s all.” It takes force to pluck him up from the edge of the bed, stepping around the ottoman that sits before the cushioned bench. For a moment he grazes a finger against the white sapling that has grown… it flinches beneath his touch.

 

The flight to the mediator relay is quiet as he sits hunched up in the copilot seat, arms pulled over his propped knees as his boots kick up on the dimmed console. Eyes adverted from the datapad tucked against his stomach he watches the ships entering the neutral territory around them; where Grineer ships accompany Corpus vessels, unarmed carriers docking side to side with one another – trade deals to be made less they want to exchange cannon fire. Warren overhears as Kiln’s worn-down liset is directed by the dock command to the higher region hangers, to accompany other various smaller vessels and middling cruisers, militant, mercenary, or otherwise.

As they curve around the path of a passenger transport vessel they fall beneath the protective overhang of the roaming relay, where heavy guns sit perched on the overhang they pass beneath. The ship is slowly hushed down into the gravitational coils, where energy tethers reach out and correspond to the ship, directing it into the safety of the relay’s ozone projection. They ride out the lurches as the ship finally comes to land on the platform, the landing gear bearing the ship’s weight as it initially drops then eases back level.

There’s a pause, and the engines begin to wind down.

Pushing the control wheel back into its well on the left side of the cockpit, Kiln pushes his seat back to give himself the needed leg space. The seatbelt sits worn behind where he once sat as he rises up, checking back on the overhead dashboard as he keeps himself crouched in the contained space. Much too small for a warframe of his stature. To the side Warren throws off his seatbelt – the only working one as he pulls himself out of the gashed seat to follow the towering oberon.

Stretching out limbs as he departs, Kiln picks over the list that has been sent over from loki to cephalon; the same list that has been transferred to the tenno’s datapad as he picks over it – pistol and rifle ammunition tops the list; new gauze, antiseptics, replenishments to their medical supplies follow soon after along with the general specifics for the medbay – a scramble of ideas half noted down follow it in regards of the intensive care cot, if they ever come to need it. So many things they have need for – but the ship can only hold so much at a time in its worn down state; Warren notes it as he looks to the tailfin engines.

“What a perfect thing to disappear with,” the same voice creeps in the back of his mind.

Trying his best to ignore the creeping intrusive thoughts he follows Kiln into the relay’s security checkpoint, unbothered by the towering oberon’s presence as he double checks his scarf is secure around his face. Even though he’s clad head to toe in black, grey, and the faint hints of tan and brown, he easily meshes into the crowds of traders and wandering mercenaries, a lot more so than the towering oberon decorated with dull blues, rusting red, and the glint of organic golds.

Grim clings in the air as they wander towards the weapon dealer den, exchanging credits for a shipment of the long caliber rounds needed for T’viska’s aging Rubico, for another, the heavy armor penetrating rounds of an euphona – both not delivered to them but to a storage facility top-side, where they’re to collect them before their departure. Something Warren reminds Kiln of – having gotten too far used to Lotus-aligned vessels.

“Have you visited relays much?” Kiln asks as they wander towards the ‘medical exchange’ wing – above them surges a call in corpus and grineer, expounded in general terminus. The selling of warframe parts – black market.

“Enough,” Warren sighs, noting how smaller things have seem to become – he’s grown since last time he’s been here. Uncertain how much time has actually passed. “Just enough to get in – get out, get the things we need and leave.”

The oberon’s breathing rumbles as they walk between the crowds of mercenary and merchants, between the local residents that make the relay their home as well as those just passing through. His presence splits them, but not their gaze as they keep to themselves – and above them the announcement blares, the trade den for warframe parts is open. “Do they…,” the oberon is uncertain as he allows the tenno to lead before him.

“It’s all whatever’s found; I don’t like it either,” the tenno flinches, pulling himself over to where he knows where to get the basic medical essentials – the medbay cot parts can wait. “Corpus… keep whatever they find to themselves; scavengers are the only ones that sell.” He turns his back to where he can see people gathering, talking amongst themselves as armed guards had made themselves known – the area around them devoid of people. “Let’s get the medical supplies and go…”

“Alright,” the oberon heaves, watching over the tenno’s back as he walks into the storefront – and follows a moment later.

Another 40 thousand credits down they head back into the central lobby; Kiln double checks over the list in his optical sensors as he follows the teenager back towards the stairs to the higher overhang level. The ammunition waits for them topside – the medical supplies and medical cot connectors are also on their way – the main things they’ve taken to visit the relay for as far as the teenager is aware. But on Kiln’s list notes more; a new bed for Warren, replacement sheets, whatever the teenager so desires or finds need for.

Kiln watches the teenager’s steps; his head remains turned down to the datapad in his hands, barely acknowledging his surroundings as the somatic signal keeps a stern vigil in his stead. Taking a steady breath, the oberon speaks, “is there anything you want to get for yourself…?”

Warren stops in his tracks.

His brows squeeze as he continues to stare down at his datapad – then looks up with the same still stunned, confused stare. “No…” eventually works its way through his throat, his mouth turning into a grimace beneath his scarf, pain needling through his throat and down into his stomach as the tense silence fills the air between guardian and teenager. “I… don’t need much,” he fumbles, “maybe… just some food,” his features remain squeezed as he shifts out of the way of a passing stranger, moving off to the side. “The markets should be… in the upper halls in the residential wing.”

For a moment he doesn’t move; fingers fiddle with the datapad, hesitation briefing his steps before he finally moves.

Getting something for himself… feels off.

Kiln follows behind him as they walk up the steps, noting how much slower the tenno’s pace has become, how he holds the datapad against his chest, shoulders bent inward – a stature of discomfort. Words of apology halts in the oberon’s mind as he holds them back – it’d just make the tenno’s anxiety worse. “Any thoughts about getting a new bed…? Or blankets?” He asks gently, keeping his voice low. “Anything that might make the orbiter feel more comfortable, more at home?”

“It’s… already home,” Warren tries to bring words to his voice, fighting back the mild quiver that threatens to break out in the crowded space as his thoughts begin to spiral – what does he even like? While it’s true he has very little to call his own – clutching the datapad against his chest – even the thought of self-expression scares him. Too much to deal with, too much to hold onto – ever so used to having nothing but essentials. He bites at his lip, keeping himself turned away from the oberon as they follow the route to the food court.

Food… food was the only thing that brought him comfort. But the dried mapricos never satisfied his fatigue. The generic meal broths flavored only by pre-packaged dry flakes that he’s been eating for the last several months never alleviated or elevated his mood… done nothing but to satisfy the hole in his gut. Anything was better than nothing… he had kept telling himself, where the stale taste of dry virmink, skate, bolarola stuck in his mind.

He can’t remember the last time he had fresh meat.

As he takes in the smell of the busy market that drifts through the air – it draws him to pause, halt, stop in his tracks as his eyes drift close, a tear beading at the edges of his eyes as he breathes it in. His mouth waters at the thought of having a fresh meal for once; his nervous hesitation begins to crest at the worry of expense. Would it just be too much…?

Warren looks back to the oberon.

Kiln motions him to go ahead, “don’t worry about cost.”

And beneath the scarf, the tenno’s mouth breaks into a smile.

 

‘How’s the visit going,’ loki calls to oberon.

‘Currently browsing a catalog of flora, he’s got his eye on some lunar pitchers for the medical ward. Mentions the old ones are long dried out, infestation.’

‘Has he been enjoying himself…?’

‘Yeah… he had a some döner kebab sandwiches earlier, wants to go back for some more before we depart.’

‘Did he get himself a new bed, or at least some denser blankets?’

‘Yeah,’ the oberon sighs, looking over to where the teenager has turned to browsing through the smaller plants, touching beneath the blooms as he reads over the information cards – recycled metal readouts held against the white metal surface. ‘He insists on keeping the current size… but convinced him to get something that can fit him and the kavats. Was pretty animated when we visited the local tapestry seller – had to pick out which ones he wanted the most – a couple blankets and a rug.’

T’viska chuckles, ‘that’s good… I’m glad he’s getting something for himself. The ship’s way too bleak for someone like him – understandably, you know?’

‘Yeah…’ Kiln pauses, breathing in, hesitating, ‘his somatic signal has gotten stronger.’

T’viska is silent on his end of the connection, save for the brief hiss he pulls a metal shard from his thigh. ‘Yep, a pleasant surprise that sure was. I won’t be back on the ship for a while, take care of him until then.’

Regret digs through the oberon’s throat; he’s hit a sore spot. ‘Alright, keep safe out there.’

The loki disengages the connection.

 

It’s with a sigh that T’viska rests back against the metal ribbing of his liset, “he’s finally taking care of himself.” There’s a pause in his movements, leaning back over a moment later to continue to pry shrapnel from his gashed thigh. “Gotten himself some things, even a rug to touch up the place a bit, I’m sure Rhu and Cren will be happy with that,” he chuckles, attention barely adverted as the cephalon continues to pick through mission details.

Silence turns his smile into a frown. “Next one is an intel run, right,” he looks over to where the cephalon presides within his optical sensors, crafting words from middling text as his precepts for a moment mix – in the middle of breaking security codices and managing their assignment organization in a sweep.

‘Yes,’ the cephalon keeps brief, ‘other side of Ceres. Base is breaking ground and there’s rumors of orokin relic having been found. In-fighting is likely, given the delegates have requested this. Proceed with caution.’

The loki sighs, relaxing himself for a moment before he yanks a shard that had half embedded itself – biting back a scream as it shreds the muscles of his outer thigh. Still slicken with his dark blood he tosses it across the room, watching as it falls uselessly beside the other shimmering fragments as his leg blooms with energy – his well-off reserves tending to the wound. Resting back, he reaches for the broken canister sat at his side; he still has seven left. “I’ll need to stock up on more of these,” he dances the chip between his metal fingers – waiting as his body heals.

‘Shall I queue them, T?’ the cephalon asks.

Hand dropping back to his side T’viska’s horns clink back against the wall. “Please do… I don’t want to be scared half to death again… I have enough to worry about without him somehow jumping through me in the middle of a hot-zone.” Moving back to lean forward he cradles his head, sighing as it drifts around to the back right where a fresh scar has begun to heal – much slower than the others.

He thought he was fast enough…

‘T’viska.’

“What is it, Suuir?” the loki pulls himself up to his feet – there’s still work to be done.

‘Would it be too much to suggest you bring him along, to low-risk missions like before?’

T’viska drops himself into the pilot seat, looking over the diagnostics as they become alive once more – having completed their self-repair sequence from earlier structural damage. “Like what,” he keeps himself from snapping, “involve him even more and risk another Triton incident?”

‘I know it scares you to involve him,’ the cephalon directs the liset towards their new objective, watching as the loki keeps silent; checking his euphona for damage, reloading and replenishing his satchel. ‘But he’ll get involved either way –’

“I know,” T’viska nearly snaps, looking over their possible landing zones ahead, for a place he can drop down and be picked up later. Silence hangs in the air as they fly over the Ceres factory fields, where the liset soars through the billows of smog and leaving a trail in the wake of their void mask path.

The engines are the only thing that sound within the vessel – the exterior grind and hiss of Grineer machinery made mute.

‘At least talk with him about it, T’viska.’

After another silent moment, the loki slips his euphona into its holster with a sigh. “Fine… just leave me be and rattle through these missions, until I have need of you…. Please be silent, Suuir.” His voice nearly hisses; irritated, angry… afraid of what unnecessary harm it would inflict on the teenager.

 

It’s with a huff that the teenager drops himself onto the mattress.

Partly staring off to the older bed that has thrown down across the room, sat askew, his sight remains unfocused, hazed in relief as his eyes gently fall close. His body is the next to fall, landing back on the bed as his legs hang just off the side – far enough so his boots barely trace the floor as he pulls a blanket over his body, his face. Beneath it he exhales a slow sigh as the orbiter’s engines rumble against his spine, the vibrations that lull him further calm as he only listens to the oberon’s steps as he departs. To return to the liset, it’s without a doubt the teenager concludes, breathing deep again as his arms cross over his face, covered by the plush material which he draws comfort from.

Faintly dazing into a nap, wondering what he’s to do with the old mattress. There’s not much room for it elsewhere – blossoming the idea of renovating the transference room at some time.

The sound of rummaging plastic snaps the teenager’s eyes open – the bulk container.

Warren snaps himself up to sit, glancing over to where the sound of plastic crinkling and metallic scratches sound. A brown and tan body stands hunched over the object on the other-side of the ottoman – head turned over and ears held back as the teenager catches her attention.

“Cren,” Warren gently hisses beneath his breath, snapping his fingers in an effort of discouragement, pulling himself up from the bed and carrying along the new fabric interest over his chilled shoulders. “That’s not for you, glutton.” He teases, scuffing a hand through her wirey hair. Plucking the container of food from the ground, he sits himself onto the cushioned bench where the older blankets have since been laid – tone black features worn out by salty stains and aggressive wrinkles, parts he ignores as he rummages out the take-out of fried skate nuggets, popping one into his mouth.

Consuming them mouthful after delicious mouthful, the teenager looks out into distant space as his shoulders falter lax, leaning back into the old cushions that have once smelled of iron as his boots kick up onto the ottoman – ankles crossing off to the side of the arboriform sapling. On his far-side Crenshaw jumps up beside him, cradling her head against his thigh as he tries to keep his food out of her reach. As he eats toasted morsels straight from the skewer, she stares up at him – and Warren grumbles in her general direction as she tries to take a bite out of a scrap of meat as he tries to bite free a different chunk.

Off to the side the datapad continues to go ignored, half covered by the blanket that has since been shrugged from his shoulders as he eats. Save for the minor tone that plays as another message goes unanswered, he keeps his attention away.

Warren gives it a sideward glance.

His mouth presses into a tight frown as his brows squeeze, staring at the display as four unread messages are read out – names listed beside them, tenno he’s come across and formally contacted… he never gave out his unbound status to the Lotus.

It’s a moment of hesitation that is broken by the kavat as she tries to crawl into his lap further.

 

There’s a sigh as T’viska leans up against the foundry, hand crooked up against the lip as his other reaches back over the slowly healing wound near the back of his head. Clawed fingers dance against the harsh ridging as the flesh begins to reform, firming gradually from the echo of a gunshot. Across his side his normal wounds have already started to close – leaving nothing to mar his well-worn out body aside from scars made by century old wounds.

He thought he was fast enough.

Mouth pressed tight, his sigh steams through his vents. Systems still overworked from the assignment runs.

The loki’s hand drops back down to the foundry as his optical sensors check into the cephalon’s data banks, picking through the knowledge carousel as he follows the old inquiries requested to the residential chamber’s screen. As he fiddles mindlessly with an energy restore chip he reads over the logs – the documents of the void, of the somatic signals, the arboriforms taken interest once more before they turn back into the emptiness that empowers the orbiter’s engines, the entanglement that runs as the only connection between the three.

The only measure, the only means the teenager could’ve had to move so quickly from orbiter to body.

‘T’viska,’ the cephalon makes himself known.

“I know, Suuir,” the loki sighs, pressing the energy restore chip down beside a canister stack. He retreats his thoughts from the cephalon’s datascape, glancing towards the ramp that leads down to the lower chambers of the orbiter’s habitable space. “How’s he…?” his voice is soft; partial embitter as he tries to piece together his thoughts. How to word himself without breaking the fear that sits caught within his throat as his hand drifts back to the wound in the back of his head – still healing.

‘Asleep,’ the cephalon responds, piecing together within the warframe’s sightline. ‘He’s started renovating the transference chamber as a secondary residential. Old bed and other things.’

“Has he,” T’viska faints a smile; glad that someone’s pulling the weight he’s been unable to. Too busy to manage the orbiter between his assignments. With a stretch he pulls himself towards the modification station, piecing through for something to speed up the healing, still worried about the wound at the side of his head. “Should increase casting speed,” he mumbles, picking through before placing his hand against the system’s interface.

He winces as the needle pierces his palm – circuitry jolting for the moment.

Black blood drips from the injection site at the base of his wrist.

Clawed fingers rub over the beading blood as energy restores it shut, “that should do it.”

‘Speaking to yourself now, T?’

The warframe sighs as he turns away, ripping off his shredded and blood-stained shirt before tossing it aside on top of other well-worn shirts. Ready to be carried down and be made into targets. “Keeping myself in check, Suuir.”

His steps are light as he walks down into the lower level hallway, diverting himself first to the transference chamber to check which items have since been moved. Crates stack along the walls, storage containers sit columned into their own little groupings and are marked each with a line of tape. Organized, uncluttered… T’viska wonders where everything now sits since they aren’t piled on top one another.

Stepping back, he forces himself, despite his discomfort, towards the main residential.

Peering into the room it sits much clearer before – the walls sit barren of age old dust that once clung to it, the junction of floor to wall easier to see as a bright warm rug covers the flooring between the ottoman and the platform to the far-side glass. Shelves sit organized, dusted, openly shining their recess lighting over cleaned scrap pieces that have once been long since buried. Suuir’s former shell sits on one shelf… cracked open and cleaned out save for the traces of damage that it had once sustained.

It takes a few moments to realized he stopped on the first step down to the lower landing, taken in by the revitalized atmosphere.

The arboriform plant still sits in its glass jar upon the center of the ottoman, filling out the glass as glowing tendrils drift down to the surface as it leans. A circling metal stand keeps it in place, parts from an engine wound up with metal strips.

T’viska looks over to where Warren’s sleep, then back to the makeshift stand.

The teenager had managed to curl himself up against Crenshaw’s back in his sleep, an arm coiling out from beneath the draped wine color blanket and tugging the dozing kavat close upon the bed. Her eyes blink open as the warframe sits himself off to the side, not on the bed, but off on the cushioned bench where it would not disturb the sleeping tenno.

Once more, T’viska considers not waking him.

Suuir’s presence reminds him.

Leaning over with one hand on the bed, he pats the teenager’s back through the blanket, waiting for a moment before he tries again. “Hey, Warren,” he keeps his voice low and calm, deafened to the worried alarm that still resurge from the fear of transference. “Wake up, kid, I need to ask you something.”

An arm pulls around the kavat, fist pulling into a cautious fist.

The loki exhales as he waits, well aware of the tenno’s hesitation as he looks over to the datapad left on the ottoman – without picking it up, without its screen on, he can read that messages sit unread. He looks back to Warren. “Would you be interested in going to Mars again…? Practice with some of that stored energy, we have enough ammunition I can let you shoot the euphona.” He tries to keep his voice light, looking over the bundle that remains still.

Eventually Warren pulls himself up to sit, flicking the blanket over his shoulder as his hair sits a mess. There’s a pause before he speaks. “How far out are we,” his words are direct, eyes held nearly in a squint as his shoulder sit hunched. Blinking out exhaustion.

T’viska is fairly certain why the teenager holds himself so restricted – he doesn’t itch at the slow creeping heal at the side of his head, hoping it’ll go unnoticed. “We’re already on course to orbit, thought we could… talk, about what happened earlier.” His mouth nearly presses into a line.

A frown responds first, eyes looking down to the back of Crenshaw’s head as his hand brushes through her coat. Hesitation sits.

“Gives you time to have fresh, uncycled air for once,” the warframe briefs, sitting on the bench, scooting further away to give the tenno room.

The tenno’s brows continue to squeeze; the good side of his mouth twitches in thought.

T’viska sits back some more – waiting. Hoping he hasn’t asked for too much.

Hands wring into the sheets, somatic sights flickering from side to side. “I’m… sorry for what happened earlier… it was stupid of me to do that.” Warren’s mouth presses firm, looking to the side. “I just… couldn’t take the pain anymore; the explosion, the shrapnel, it hurt so much that I… Kiln tried to stop me – ”

“Kiln told me,” the loki answers back – hearing the teenager’s voice hitch. Fear. “It’s my fault for letting the job get that bad, Warren. You shouldn’t suffer for my mistakes… you did nothing wrong, you did what you thought was right and got me those energy restores.”

Warren sits silent. Fingers dig into the sheets as he presses his face into Crenshaw’s back.

Silence once more hangs between them, held taut between father and son.

“If you don’t want to go to Mars,” T’viska speaks again, “that’s alright,” he tries to buffer the possibility of perceived malcontent that might’ve fluxed through his voice. “Just figured since you got a better hold on your void powers… the transference and what have,” he looks over to the pot stand – there’s nothing aboard the ship that could have done that. Save for the teenager’s fists. “It looks nice,” he smiles over at it, easily turning his head to it completely – the wound sits on the other side, nearly healed, “did you make that yourself…?”

Warren looks up from the kavat’s fur, and nods. “There was some scrap metal sitting around… and it was having some weight problems so I just kinda… threw them together.” He doesn’t smile, partial shame echoes. It’s not good enough for him.

“Well, at least it does the job yeah?” T’viska laughs, looking over to the tenno. “That’s what matters.”

“I guess,” muffles from the tenno, spoken against Crewshaw’s back – she wiggles herself out of his arms, dancing down to the floor where she moves to the rug and stretches out.

“Guess she likes it,” T’viska laughs again with a smile, “you did an amazing job livening up the place, Warren. It feels so much cozier now with the much-needed color.” Even though the walls still sit as off-middle grey, where the monochrome tones still provoke the sterile feeling beneath the surface, the spots of color pop even more from the floor, the bed, the divider surface where the other blanket had since been laid – a surface for trinkets to sit. His hand glances to the side of his head – the wound site is still soft, but well on its way to healing completely.

Warren moves to sit at the edge of the bed. “yeah… I figured a couple blankets laying around is better than a bunch of lousy crates,” his voices hitches with repressed excitement, trailed with hesitation as he pulls the blanket around himself. He pauses, thinking as he glances to his fists. “Could we… go to Mars in a little while…?” He looks over to the loki.

“Of course,” T’viska looks back, “I’ll get everything set for when you feel ready. Just tell Suuir when you’re ready, alright?”

“Alright,” the tenno’s voice is light, but a chance of excitement manages to leave him. Eager to try out his void imbued fist on some metal.

 

Red dust kicks up in the blowback of the liset’s twin engines.

As it whispers out of its void mask the hull sits scratched, the exterior scarred with grey as the thrusters blow sand and rubble back against the portions of a skeletal hull that lies ruined and well scavenged – a decades old carrier broken in two. T’viska guides it to move to a vertical descent closer to one of the two main halves, listening as the landing gear kicks out beneath them as the distance to the ground closes in from 20 meters, to 10, and then cushions its decent as the feet dig into the top soil surface.

To his side, within the copilot seat Warren’s legs have since been kicked up, scarf pulled over his mouth as he looks through his datapad – fingers tapping against the surface as the loki disengages the engines and draws them silent. “Hasn’t been any Grineer activity around here for a while,” T’viska sighs, turning through his internal resources caught in his optical sensors. “Should be able to do as much mayhem as you want,” he looks over to Warren, “I’ll set up the targets while you look around,” and he pulls off his seatbelt.

Warren nods, pulling off his own as he tucks the datapad away into a recess to his right.

Having already prepared the target dummies prior, it doesn’t take long for T’viska to set them up as he wants – gauging the distance from target to shooting point, an angled piece of rusted metal he had since pulled from the carrier’s wreckage. Once he sets everything into place he glances over to where the sound of impacted metal resounds – denting and fracturing as prickles of pain dance up his knuckles.

T’viska ignores the echoes running up his arm with a quick shake of his limbs, walking back to the liset and picking up the case of euphona ammunition that he had set aside for just this purpose. Easily he carries it over to where he wants the teenager to stand behind, dropping it down beside the angled piece of metal. “Warren,” he calls out as he dusts off his hands, his euphona still sits holstered at his hip.

It’s through the surges of pain the loki has managed to keep track of the tenno’s position among the wreckage – his somatic signal surging with each metal impact, where a burst of bright blue flares up and drifts in contrast to the dark burned out metal husk. There’s a pause, and another deep impact – the loki bites back a hiss as he holds his hand.

He doesn’t hold it when Warren walks back into his line of sight from the ship’s skeleton, holding his own hand against his chest with a grimace. Bones piecing back into place. “I… think I broke a couple bones,” he winces, looking over to T’viska with amusement danced across his features, “still need to build up this… unairu stuff,” he tries to smile as he shakes his hand to the side; nerves twitching as his body heals from the damage.

Of course, it concerns T’viska – he holds his palm against the grip of his euphona. “Ready to try your hand at it,” he gestures over to the range he’s made, watching as the tenno approaches without a hitch in his step; strides made with confidence. “When it’s healed, of course.”

“Ah,” the tenno tries to edge a smile, “it already has, see?” he flexes his fingers as proof, holding his hand out for the pistol.

T’viska’s features remain pressed firm, his mouth pressed flat. He hands over his euphona. “It’s got a nasty kick to it, takes some getting used to,” and he steps away from the marker, letting Warren take position behind the metal piece. “Do you remember what I’ve taught you with the lato?”

“Sure do,” the teenager sighs as he takes aim, shrugging off the brief stint of hesitation that once weighs on his shoulders, directing himself into a static firing stance as he takes stock of the targets before him.

“I’ve got an assignment after this,” T’viska speaks frank as he watches the tenno assess the target distances – he can see the first ebb of void energy as Warren’s hands firm around the euphona’s grip. “Would you be interested in tagging along…?”

Dust billows around them once more – slightly obscuring the furthest target from their position close to the liset. It makes Warren pause, waiting for the dust to settle.

“Sure,” he exhales.

And the euphona kicks back as it fires, void energy flaring in the echo.


	24. Chapter 24

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -+- Kudos, sharing, and comments are encouraged! -+-
> 
> Tags will be updated over time.

Beneath the void cloak they fly through Martian skies, soaring over structures dusted with the glints of red sands. Once ancient, and formerly reclaimed by previous settlers, the grind of crude Grineer machinery has taken their place, invading former roads with heavy industrial piping, carved holes into buildings to force their way through. Towering smokestacks dot along the landscape beyond the ridge they approach, machinery belching gas vapors just downwind of their chosen landing site – less likely to suddenly switch in the current weather cycle. Within the carapace of the ship only the engines hum in ear-shot – shaking them as the landing gear kicks out and settles them from the vertical descent.

T’viska slings the seatbelt from his shoulder.

Euphona strapped against his hip he moves back towards a storage hatch to the side of the exit ramp – high tight as the wind continues to whip up around them. “I’ll carry in the explosive device,” he speaks, looking back to where the teenager has begun to remove his belts. “I’ll call in when it’s clear for you to transfer over, alright?”

Warren eases a sullen nod, settling himself comfortable within the copilot seat. Assignment details sit off to the side on his datapad he pulls over onto his lap – the liset’s commlink already connected with the loki’s own. “So… they want a power conduit blown up, then exterminate the crew team…?” He questions back, looking to where T’viska has shrugged the transport over his back, dropping down an energy restore as he waits for the winds to die down – dust is hard to remove from the Liset’s gear door, where the heat makes it crystalize.

“Yep; explosive will need to be secured against the conduit to give it the initial short out and the sympathetic explosion – I’ve handled these before, so come down to it,” the loki pauses, glancing over to where the tenno sits, “I can rattle off the directions – this one’s code sequence is 39549.”

‘Sabotage the facility, leave no survivors.’

Warren looks to his datapad, making sure to note the sequence. “39549, got it,” his voice sits in a mere whisper, looking over the snapshot of the landscape around them – the dig site sits massive a few short kilometers away.

“Once the wind dies down, I’m going out,” T’viska shrugs his shoulders, adjusting the payload that lies against his back. “There’s enough dust stuck in the gears as is,” he grumbles – all to aware of the slight grind the ramp had made less than an hour earlier.

“Yeah,” the teenager sighs, turning himself around to kick his feet up onto the console – he’ll have to wait out until he’s needed. Biting his lip, sinking into the silence, he turns his focus to the atmospheric gauges that glow over the observation glass before them.

Slowly, as the warframe stretches out behind him, the wind speed begins to die down, enough to where the ramp locks can safely disengage.

And they open up just enough for T’viska to slip out, the ramp clamping up again just as quickly.

Leaving Warren alone in the silence.

He sighs.

Only the idle functions remain alight before him as he pokes around on his datapad, whispering beneath his breath the code sequence needed for the bomb … the item he may be set to arm, that he might transfer through to set… “39549,” he whispers to himself alone.

‘How many died because of you, Warren?’

Brows drawn close he ignores the venom spitting inside his skull, turning himself to only focus on the assignment at hand, on the explosive codes as he scrolls through the surrounding overlay as the liset only tracks the loki’s relative position before him – a map he has to transpose with his digital display. “39549,” he exhales, “39549,” he works to remember, looking over the shear size of the expanse around them – a crater sits around the dig site.

It must have some great importance, he figures as he settles down the datapad, feet placing back to the floor.

And he pulls his scarf up around his snarling features.

Setting his somatic eyes close as they begin to glow, his somatic link reaches out across the Martian terrain, easily finding connection to the loki’s transference bolt at the base of his neck. Beneath the guise of a void cloak he hurdles over Grineer guardrails placed above the grind of tumblers, landing on hock and ankles before legs stretch back out, sprinting over the landscape as their senses align with one another – and Warren opens his eyes, sight meshing between the ship console before him and the blinding of dusty sands.

Grineer machinery bellows into his ears as the loki cleanly leaps over the obstacles, steps dancing around the bulk of guard bodies as they move from opened up clearings to the restraint of interchange buildings, where the only light lines overhead, bulbs surging in lax repair.

To himself the teenager repeats the code for later – even as in the loki’s vision it has been implanted to never forget. “39549.”

In a mesh of vision and motions, the teenager aligns his nerves to the loki’s hand as it catches around the bulk of a catwalk guard, leaping over it and hanging down before landing square onto the soft sand – and they keep moving, Warren slowly aligning his senses to the warframe’s own nerves.

It’s all just like before – the teenager bites at his lip, watching through the transposed sight of their movements towards the location of the power conduit – where the explosive is to be set.

It still rings in his nerves – hesitation.

The outright fear of fucking up.

It draws him back away from the thought of going through with the plan – that he’ll pull himself out through the loki to set the device up, to arm it, to participate in the easiest function of the mission that doesn’t put him in the range of gunfire. Hands squeeze around his shoulders as he observes the loki’s movements through observational sensors, watching, feeling every step taken on the cool metal and the cushion of sunbaked sands.

“39549…” yet he still repeats, it’s a chance to prove to himself he has some worth, his heart leaps.

And in the same motion, deflates.

Must he really think of himself in such deprecating terms…?

‘Dad’s counting on you, Warren,’ the voice spits vile in the back of his mind, ‘aren’t you worried about fucking it up, somehow catching him in the blast?’

He presses his fingers against the back of his neck prying against the intrusive thoughts as his eyes squeeze shut, straining to return his concentration to the assignment at hand. When they do finally fall open once again, he looks to the liset’s mission screen, feeling as the reserved system rumbles beneath him.

Twenty meters off.

“39549…” Warren swallows the hesitation that tries to bubble up into his throat, pulling himself back to mesh with the loki’s systems proper.

“Ready?” the warframe’s voice speaks through the liset’s speakers to Warren – but he can also hear him through the transference connections – nerves aligned, vocal cords echoing the other.

There’s a pause as the loki slows at ten meters off. Warren swallows again, “kinda…” he admits.

“I’ll keep watch,” T’viska consoles, “the conduit room has a single-entry point, can easily clear it of hostiles if any of them do come through, okay?” His voice is light, yet still catching up with his panting breaths – minor injuries already healing as they edge closer to the conduit connection, their sight glancing back and forth to the nearby corners. A final check.

Rummaging the payload forward from his back, T’viska drops the clamped and secured explosive device to the floor, leaving it for Warren to handle – if he so choses as he steps over to where a console sits – the shielding is still active.

Hesitation still grips the tenno’s throat as he looks through regional observation as the loki handles the shielding, his gloved fingers prying against the arm of the copilot chair thinking. Thinking, and staring, and fuming with himself – T’viska would disappointed, he convinces himself, looking up outside of his vision, adhering to the warframe’s nervous system, fusing into the somatic echo that rebounds him as the chair leaves his back, boots landing on the scattered Martian sands as his eyes remain fused closed, breath frozen as he steps back – eyes open, the warframe’s back is turned to him, facing the console Warren was only a moment ago staring down through the loki’s optical sensors.

The heel of his boots taps the payload’s casing – his head whips around.

“39549,” he whispers to himself, eyebrows pulling taut. The bomb.

He crouches down, the tail of his coat grazing against the dust spread by the infrequent Grineer foot traffic. The seal easily comes off beneath his gloved palm, hitches snapping up in such quick succession it startles a cry from the teenager – unaccustomed to the operational mechanics and the explosive it houses within. After a moment, refortifying his resolve to continue with the motions, he pulls the bulky device from the outer shell casing – the carrying case sits lump against the floor as he moves the device between his arms, cradling its heavy weight as he looks over towards where the conduit shield has begun to withdraw.

His head whirls when there’s a metallic click, boots sounding on metal as he comes eyes to barrel of a hind – sat right in front of the open door.

And the world spins for an instance, velocity throwing him towards the wall as the floor leaves his knees and sounds under his boots, yanking the device down against his stomach as he shoulders the brunt impact as the checker of armed discharge pops off, flinching as rounds rebound from the floor and two check themselves into flesh – not his flesh, he finds after he’s already crumped down to hold his shin, hand coming back clean. Somatic sight darting upwards – another report of gunfire – a hole burrowed into the face of a Grineer lancer.

T’viska flinches, shoving the Grineer back from the open of the door – hoping no one heard the gunshots. “Warren, you alright?” The loki snarls, eyespots stark with emergent energy.

“I’m, I’m fine,” the teenager’s voice trembles, picking himself up with the bomb strung between his fists – his sights turn to the glowing conduit. “I, I can do this,” his voice whimpers, eyes darting around the surface – where does it connect in?

Blood splattered euphona tucked into its holster, T’viska walks over, guiding Warren over to the power conduit sits. “We’ll need to be quick,” the warframe’s breathing is harsh, rushed with adrenaline as he undoes the final securing clasp of the wire connectors. “Take these ones, connect them over on that panel with the circle-square hazard warning, lot easier to find than the Corpus ones.”

“This one?” The panic that once strangled the teenager’s throat corrodes away as his focus directs, eyes bright and alert. His gloved palm holds at the hatch – its snug. “It’s stuck.”

“Shit,” the loki mumbles, finishing up the connector pins to the external connectors – metal fingers having cut tubing wide open. “Come hold this for me, I’ll need to cut it open.”

“It has screw holes –”

“They’re one-ways,” T’viska rounds to Warren’s other side, huddling beside the teenager as he digs his shining, blood splattered claws into the fastening. “They don’t like small repairs, the Grineer. Like to make sure everything works the first go.” And his arm wrenches back as it slips, digging back into the metal barely a few millimeters adjusted. “That and they like their hatches, shame they don’t got an easy keyhole for stuff like this,” he chuckles, glancing back over to the open door for a moment as he strips another couple millimeters from the connection, carving it so the firm lock is still left flush against the conduit’s structure.

And then the pins open – T’viska shakes his hand out of range, Warren can feel the bitter sting of metal carves on his own left hand as he holds the explosive still. “Does it still need mounted?” Warren asks.

“Kick out the side legs on it,” the loki gestures over beneath the tenno’s gloved palms, “that should secure it right where you have it. Just extend and lock them.”

And it’s just that easy as Warren firmly settles the explosive into place, the loki using his right hand to clamp the wires into their corresponding zones. T’viska curses to himself – should’ve prepared more; he snaps the last of the clamps into place, pulling the teeth back to rid it of the insulation layer. “Okay, it’s good to punch in,” T’viska barely chuffs, looking back again to the opening of the room – listening to the muffled sounds of footfall – the dead Grineer still sits off to the side.

“39-549,” Warren whispers as he turns the switch at the side of the two-stage explosive, lighting the numpad alive with its usual numerals – not orokin, nor tenno. Grineer. His brows fuse, eyes darting around, confused, stunned at such a minor blockage as he strains to read.

“Three is bottom right,” T’viska calls out, “Nine is top right.”

In a moment of a single blink he snaps into the orientation – bottom to top, the order. And he punces in the needed numbers, lights surging on around the edge of the device.

“It’s armed,” T’viska sighs, looking back down the hallway as the report of heavy boots on metal begin to storm.

An alarm begins to blare.

Bloody claws grab the teenager’s wrist, yanking him up from the floor – and Warren’s sight gasps back into the liset, his gloves finding hold of the arm rests beneath them, his weight cushioned by the seat, the backrest supporting him as his nerves still ring attuned with the warframes. Running, as adrenaline swarms his skull which he grasps he can feel muscles sting his own as they break into a sprint, swallowing as the suffocation of the cloak cast surrounds his overwhelmed senses as his back pivots forward, hands against face, vision swarming as the floor and the loki’s sight bend and meld against the other – Focus, he bites at his lip fingers pressing into his scalp behind his temple. They wring through his hair as his somatic implants bloom and surge, hidden beneath half squinting vision as the vessel’s floor and the carnage of blood pours through his sight, confounding his overloaded sensory, curling himself up tight within the copilot chair. Boots scramble to keep themselves at the edge of the seat, pulling up tight as elbows dig against his knees, fingers pulling through his hair as his heart surges – racing, screaming; his own mouth gasps when vibrations shake the transference link.

Within his mind, he can only find silence. Uncomfortable silence.

His vision snaps up to the overlay map as panic chokes his throat, mind trying to reach out. “Dad?!”

Adhered once more, he can hear a grunt as rubble clambers over metal, the ringing report of an euphona.

“I’m alright, kid,” T’viska calls back, “I’ll be back aboard in a bit. Hold tight for me, alright?”

Boots find themselves against the ground once more, arms held crossed against knees as adrenaline continues to storm through the teenager’s veins – the rush still congests his attention, his vision. “O-oh, o-okay,” he manages to work out as he swallows the sensitivity in his nerves, his heartbeat that begins to throb in his head, his throat, as he disengages the somatic connection, encaging himself with his limbs as they curl into the whorls of hairs at his nape.

Once more, the liset’s standby operations take over the silent space, where his breathing is sharp, panting as his eyes remained squeezed tight, still surging and overwhelmed.

He swallows; halting his lungs, holding them paused in hope it will calm his racing pulse.

And within it… thoughts begin to swirl.

‘You’ve really done it now,’ the voice in the back of his mind warbles, ‘this was your chance to get it right, to prove to him.’ Warren swallows as hands pull around his skull, fingers pressing hard. ‘Now you’ve gone and FUCKED IT ALL UP.’

“Shut up,” he snarls under his breath, eyes remaining fused shut as he battles the dread curling through his throat, the clawing of sorrow that scrapes through his chest as his mind rattles half-sensible. It’s just the intrusive thoughts… just the intrusive thoughts.

‘Dad got hurt because of you… he must be angry, why wouldn’t he be?’ it continues to spin through his mind as he presses his head against the console – the chill smooth against his forehead as arms curl above his head. ‘The one time he brings you… and the alarms get pulled. Now he has to fight his way out.’

His nerves ring thoroughly aggressive, lashing out against his own arm before he pulls himself back to sit in the copilot seat, eyes pressed shut as his head tilts back, scarf hanging limp around his neck.

‘You should just fly out of here,’ the other part of him whispers.

And he looks to the console before him.

It’d be so easy to lift it up from the Martian sands, pull it up and away to… to where? To achieve what? He has no idea as his mind begins to refuse, shaking himself as fingers crawl up into his hair once more, combatting the impulse, the drive, the voice telling him to just ‘RUN AWAY.’

He smacks his arm again as void energy swirls from his hand – flinching in the impact on his corrupted limb. Warren presses himself back to stare at the ceiling as his fingers crawl around to the back of his neck, prickling up through his hair as his breathing shakes, visibly trembling as his fingers quiver against his neck. “It’s okay,” he swallows down, “it’s okay, Warren, it’s okay.” He whispers beneath his breath, tears beading at the edge of his sight. “It’s okay… just breathe,” and once more his voice trembles.

Is he… he swallows as he curls himself to rest on his elbows. Eyes pressing shut as his mouth draws a crooked line – the snarl of his left side features remaining exposed.

Is he going crazy…?

Warren’s mouth presses flat as his breathing becomes the only sound, hitched by the dripping weeping that crawls over his exposed features and chin.

And hiccups.

It’s a few more minutes until the liset’s ramp begins to open.

Pulling himself up from the fetal crouch, Warren wipes away the remnants of tears that once crested his sight, looking back as his nerves have finally composed themselves; heart rate down, finally in full control of his motions, he eases himself to rest before the loki can catch sight of his breakdown. But as the warframe makes his way up the ramp, Warren pulls his sight away.

The loki is covered in grim crimson, faint drops dripping from the end of the euphona’s handle where claws had once held tight.

As the ramp pulls itself up into their supporting locks T’viska wipes his hands clean on a well-used rag, throwing it back into the bin from where it came. In the silence the liset begins to whirl back to life, engines igniting once more behind them as it begins to gently lift from the sands – T’viska walks his way back to the pilot seat with the help of a guide rail.

Warren turns his attention when a palm pats behind his shoulder, looking up to the loki.

“You did good, kid,” the warframe smiles, giving one more reassuring pat. “Those things are a pain in the ass to get down first try, always a tossup if they’re going to be Corpus,” he drops himself down into the pilot seat, “or Grineer. They’re a crapshoot.” Within his sight and out of Warren’s, the loki picks through the mission selection within the region, a golden claw searching to ignite the liset’s display to them over pilot and copilot consoles. “You good for now,” he looks over, “or are you good for another one…?”

Warren stares up at the display list of available missions – transposed from the loki’s cognitive functions and optical sensors. Exterminates, sabotages, espionage, patrol, theft… a myriad of missions that have been left for whomever was willing enough to run them.

None of them are worth much, only few grand.

Glancing back over to the loki there’s a slight smile on the teenager’s face; partially excitement, half hesitation… mostly relief. “I… I think I need some more to get… used to all this. Would it be alright if I just… watched?”

T’viska smirks, reaching over pat the Warren’s shoulder. “That’s perfectly fine with me, kid. Whatever feels best for you so you don’t overwhelm yourself. Now,” he looks back to the mission selection, overlaying the distance projections within the central hologram that blinks up from the middle console. “Which might you have interest in first?” His voice is laced with the very same smile, eyespots aglow with attention… and pride.

“How about… that capture over there. A few… klicks to the south?”

“North-east, actually,” T’viska corrects with a minor snort, a laugh held in his throat as he carries the directions through to the liset. His hands barely hold onto the steering column except for a lazy lean, dialing in the tenno numerals towards their next destination to take prominence in their display. 35 kilometers out. As the liset begins to roll he shrugs off an ache stinging in his well worked shoulders, as blood absorbs into his skin. “It’s easy to get flipped around, but as long as the ship knows where it’s going, it’ll always be on track.”

Warren’s mouth presses a line for as much as it can, his bared snarling features left exposed as he looks off towards the display that makes the mock windshield. “Think you can… teach me how to drive it someday?” He mentions to the steering column that has been held secured in front of him – the joint settled between where he stretches out his boots.

“I mean,” the loki smiles, “we got the altitude, why not right now?”

Surprise cuts across the tenno’s face; eyes wide and bewildered he pauses, glancing off to the side as his features press firm. Uncertain. Hesitating; his sight searches against the sleek console and the junction of it and the wall, then down between his boots. And then he looks back, eyes bright once more, “yeah!”

And T’viska grins, claws taking hold of his own steering column as he motions to where Warren needs to tap to release his own. “Hold on, kid,” his expressive features glow with pride, “because it’s going to be a joyride.”

His announcement is met with the eager grasp of gloved hands on the copilot’s steering column, and the widest smile that even pulls the laxed muscles on the scarred cheek to even smile.

And the loki wrestles the liset out of autopilot, giving command over to the teenager – copilot turned pilot as he merely suggests maneuvers to the teenager.

It’s for more than a few hours do they spend between assignments and flight, letting the automatic systems settle in for take off and landings, T’viska gingerly teaching flight controls in between the erratic screams of capture targets and the murder conducted by contract. Bases are left cleared as the teenager remains sitting within the safety of the liset’s shell, tapping upon his datapad as he immerses himself into the liset’s mechanical systems, the rigors it’s able to sustain as he awaits his father’s return – glancing in through transference link every so often when its not laced with blood and gore. On the warframe’s arrival his voice remains energetic, never missing a beat as he asks the loki questions he may not have sufficient answers to – dropping back into the pilot seat as Warren begins to take the burden of commanding the liset; a quick learner.

It’s after a long drawn out surveillance that T’viska returns to silence.

Warren, having fallen asleep, remains slumped in the copilot seat as the warframe walks up, and it only takes a single glance for the loki to figure he might have a crick in his neck once he wakes. Stepping back towards the back of the cabin once the ramp locks up he fetches a blanket that’s been long stowed away, hooking it up into his elbow as he walks back to the front. Hands under armpits he lifts the tenno back to sit comfortably, nonchalant as a confused glove grabs his arms. “Let’s get you back home,” the loki sighs, throwing the blanket over the half-conscious teenager before he drops himself into the pilot seat.

The liset, he tabs in, bound for home.

 

Back out on the field he runs through the Corpus corridors, watched over by Warren’s observant sight as he leaps over guardrails and down to the floor several meters below. “Two on right,” the teenager watches through his somatic tether, eyes flickering from the warframe’s back to the overlaying map that blips two life-signs. His sight balances between the loki’s attention and his own, an interlay from one to the other he just as quickly briefs through. The signals are made silent as they fall out of the warframe’s range, covered by his void cloak as they continue to sprint through the Phobos facility, dancing out of the path of guards and Corpus proxies.

“There,” he calls out from within the safety of the liset, his head hung lax as his somatic eyes stay closed – keeping his concentration on the mission at hand. “Research lead is two doors right; they should still be at their station and can double that bounty.”

“On it,” the loki calls back through somatic link, snaking his way around the parade of testing proxies – new rebrand of moas, he figures. For a moment Warren’s sight follows the three-meter-tall proxies, curious about the armaments that have been fused into their structure before he snaps back to the loki’s own – following behind him into a laboratory. The keycard pad holds the door wide open as he proceeds, unlocked by Suuir.

T’viska pulls out his ceramic dagger.

And Warren looks away to the objects of research, ignoring the struggle that fights back against the muscles in his arms, the voice trying to scream out before a dagger draws it silent. A body pressing up against his chest as the loki moves to dispose of it.

Left over behind the lip of a desk, out of sight of the entry way.

“Codex is unlocked, they were already logged in,” T’viska calls through his end of the connection – his correspondence with Suuir.

‘I’ll take a minute to fetch it all,’ the cephalon speaks through the loki’s optical sight – where Warren is able to read as well. ‘No silent alarms. T, be sure I catch everything in the sweep.’

“Right. Warren, can you watch my back?”

“Already on it,” the teenager proclaims, making note of the bloody tracks that lead off from where the body has been disposed – paw marks moving to where the loki stands. Something that may just draw suspicion, especially since the loki still remains under a fresh bloom of cloak – hidden aside from the smear of a palm ridding the smooth screen surface of the visceral spray of blood.

Teeth biting against lip, he watches behind the warframe’s back, turned away from where the cephalon and loki manage the collection of Corpus research, data to be given off for high-bounty credits from a rival in-fighting company.

He listens for the sound of wandering proxies, attuning to the gentle cushioned stride as one they had previously passed earlier peers in – Warren’s breath draws still, looking between the moa and the warframe’s turned back.

It pulls back from the room, continuing off to stalk the halls.

Relief sighs through the teenager as he keeps a firm vigil out for any passing danger, his sight turning to attention again as a group of crewmen converse among themselves within the halls not long after – Warren worries that the proxy had alerted them.

T’viska, on the other hand, barely shifts to acknowledge their approaching presence, not turning away from the task at hand as his golden claws are muffled against the glass display that used to be the researcher’s workstation. Half a minute remains on the estimated time frame, counting down at the edge of the tenno’s somatic sights as he watches the crewmen draw quiet, one taking notice of the spots of blood – one raising their flux rifle with nervous palms.

One goads the other to keep moving; their own raised in precaution as they sweep the doorway – T’viska remains steadfast.

“Dad,” Warren whispers, “five at the door.”

“Stay calm, Warren,” the loki responds through the commlink, sight still turned to the transfer before him. “Twenty more,” a breath sighs – Warren’s attention returns to the crewmen behind the warframe.

They heard it; their guns raise with safety disengaged. The closest makes another step, shaking as they begin to approach.

Warren looks to the euphona tucked into its holster on T’viska’s side.

Panic laces through his throat – and he dives in.

His gloved fingers curl around the euphona’s grip as he tumbles out of the loki’s side, stunning him into a stumble as the tenno scrambles up to his feet – still getting used to phasing out of his father’s shadow as he takes aim and fires into the ribs of the crewmen.

The distance means the bullet makes short work of the Corpus’ organs, piercing through in a tight hole beneath the suit’s connection and exploding out through back and shoulder, rending the screams into a short silence as the flux rifle screams in turn. Electricity sparks from the broken wires above them; non-vital, Warren hopes before the searing of lasers burn his arm, collapsing him back to the floor as he holds his limb and returns another shot to the Corpus huddled around the door before he becomes enveloped – hand not finding the euphona in his gloved fingers, but blood as he clutches where his corrupted arm bleeds. Eyes snapping open – he’s back in the liset, pulled out of the somatic transference as blood pours over his bicep, held against his jacket as the smell of burned fabric fumes in his nose.

“Aaaah fuck,” he winces, pulling himself back into the loki’s sight, fear digging into his heart as the connection affirms, finding the Corpus dead in a pool of their own blood – the euphona glistening red.

Cutting over to where he thought he was, Warren sees the smear of blood – his own blood.

“Warren – ” cuts off.

“Fuck, fuck!” He curses, kicking the console as he holds his pain-stricken arm against him, huddling it close as void energy burns his skin, recovering the wound back into the sunbaked tone that covers his entire left arm.

Staring out to the sky outside the liset, tears splotch his sight.

Drawn silent, he strikes out again. Now he’s fucked it up; Warren holds his face, mouth crushing as tears squeeze between his eyelids, somatic sight turned dark. Unresponsive to the tether that tries to search for his somatic connection.

“Warren,” comes up through the liset’s speakers. “We’ve got all of it, I’m heading back right now.”

“But,” tears constrict the teenager’s throat; didn’t he fuck it all up? What about the connection, the gun shot, the Corpus; a million things race through the teenager’s mind as he coils against the blazing that crawls through his nerves, revitalizing the flesh and tissue that’s been previously cauterized by the Flux rifle shot.

“Just stay there,” the warframe partials a shout, aggressively affirmative to himself but uncertain how he sounds to the panicking teenager. Outside of the tenno’s sightline he moves through the Corpus facility just as quickly, letting the cephalon tend to the alerting calls that threaten in his wake.

Once back within the liset, as it moves to fly off and return to the orbiter, the warframe kneels beside the co-pilot seat. Golden claws hold like a vice around the tenno’s sleeve, grip relenting when Warren winces. “Has it been healing?” He looks over the blistering wound – his pulse hammering within his throat.

“Slowly,” the teenager whimpers, his opposing glove returns to the blistering wound as he watches the warframe step away – catching sight of the mirrored injury that sits over T’viska’s own left arm. Same location, same former depth as it was initially, as though it was still recent enough for the healing factor not to yet kick in. T’viska doesn’t notice as he yanks out a small medback from behind the scrap fabrics, knelling down to the side of the copilot seat, leaning against it as the liset lurches itself out of the way of a Corpus Gox.

“Hold this for me,” the loki breathes, handing Warren a small tube of antiseptic as he cradles the medpack between his knees, leaning up against the side of the chair as he motions a suggestion for Warren to extend his arm, level the plane of the injury. Warren can see the barest hint of the loki’s energy fizzling at the edge of his own wine colored wound – not at all dissimilar to the others that had long cut across his father’s body – and his attention turns back when the prick of a claw draws fluid to drip down his arm. Draining the swiftly formed blister.

T’viska is quick to apply the antiseptic as Warren sits slump, letting his father work and wrap his wound.

“Let’s get you home,” the loki announces as he stumbles to stand, hand grabbing for the armrest of the copilot seat as he moves to stand. Warren huddles himself still, gloved hand holding around where the gauze has been wrapped over his jacket sleeve. “That was the last mission, think you deserve a break,” the loki sighs, confidence doesn’t edge his tone as he stands upright, putting away the medpack by shoving it in between the scraps of fabric.

For a moment, as Warren picks through to say something or not… he remains quiet, huddling himself as he barely even glances over to where the loki sits himself into the pilot seat, taking them right back to the orbiter they call home.


	25. Chapter 25

He lies there, staring at the ceiling.

Arms pulled up into a cross his fingers graze the fresh bandaging that blemishes with a tint of staining white, his jacket long removed to be patched later. Warren stares up at the ceiling above the bed, entertaining himself with the fleck of arboriform dander that drifts over his view. How long has he lied there still…? Minutes, hours…? He can’t really tell as everything just seems to blur around him, the only thing grounding himself seeming to be the texture of the bandaging gauze. Wrapped around his bare corrupted limb, very likely already healed below.

But still…

There’s a hitch in his thoughts as the orbiter shifts against his back, motions of the gravity drive adjusting to settle a vessel beneath them – T’viska’s liset. Without moving his head where he’s long buried it within a comforting bundled blanket, he’s still well aware of Kiln’s presence across the room. Watching him; probably at his father’s request.

Warren can sense as the oberon shifts from leaning against the wall to walking around the platform divider – the door easing shut outside area of perception.

With a sigh, his eyes slip close.

He merely listens as the door opens again; T’viska this time. The loki shoos away the kavats that have perched themselves on the cushioned bench – the surface sighs as the warframe sits. Warren doesn’t look over, but from last time he perceived through the somatic link, there was a haphazard bandage wrapped around his arm. Just in the same area his now healed wound resided.

“How’re you feeling…?” T’viska asks gently, spoken down from a lean, heard with a distinctively reserved sigh.

“Better,” is all Warren can manage out, where a strangling still holds in his throat. Hesitation stings; he must physically pull himself up to sit on the bed, arms laxed on his legs. He glances to where the bandaging wraps, picking at it. “I think it’s healed up now…” he barely glances over at his adopted father; especially as anxiety continues to grip in his throat, for if the bandaging remains. Instead of reinforcing his fear he continues to look at the bandaging… picking at the gauze until its entirely free. His arm beneath free of scarring.

“That’s good, looks like it’s healed up nicely,” the warframe moves from the cushioned bench, sitting at the edge of the bed – the bandaging out of sight as Warren looks up. “There’s still a few assignments left in the region… would you be interested in tagging along before we move to the next sector…?”

Warren doesn’t look up from his sulking posture. His arms remain crossed as he holds himself reserved, fingers prying against his tired biceps as he thinks – is he emotionally ready to try again? Would he do something just as stupid or even as dangerous as before…? Could he manage holding back and not breaking down after a stint of just too many stressors; blaring alarms, guns trained on him, the threat of danger tied to the very work his father does to keep the orbiter going as long as it has?

“Not right now,” he briefs, eyes glancing away to where Crenshaw had made her place at his side – curling up into the blanket he had since abandoned. “I want to give my arm some more time… make sure I don’t pull anything, you know?”

Warren can hear the disappointed sigh that leaves his father – he never looks up. Why should he when he knows enough from sound alone? “That’s fine, Warren, take as much time as you need to recover. I know before the energy restores something like that would’ve just kept me sidelined for a few days. Those fucking guns hurt like hell.” Words that just roll past Warren, as he looks down to where his hands cradle the feline’s head, stroking the coarse fur. A sensation to distract him.

An arm wraps around him, and it takes a moment to realize as golden clawed palms pat at his back, held up in a hug.

He remains stunned in silence, but his head bows against his father’s shoulder.

“Take good care of yourself while I’m off, okay?” the loki exhales as he pulls back, meeting his son’s sight with the concerned glare of bright eye slits. The concept of a face only remains as Warren pulls himself back from the notion of reassurance – he doesn’t need it, doesn’t deserve it.

“Okay,” is all the teenager can manage out; and watches after the warframe as he leaves.

Only once the door slips closed, his shoulders begin to ease out of hunching up – how’d he not notice that? Not realize that his shoulders have begun to frozen up against his sides, elbows pressing into his ribs – when have they frozen up? When he sat up, when he was talking, when his father hugged him…? He can’t tell – as his emotions have continued to resign flat, deflated, as he stares across the way and to where the false window sits.

One leg at a time, lifting Crenshaw up and over from his lap, he moves to the edge of the bed, and picks up the datapad from the central ottoman. A sprig of the arboriform sapling wraps around the side of one of the legs, trailing down over the side of the furnishing. It takes him longer than usual to find his grip onto the power button along the side, where the holographic screen surges to life after a few seconds.

He can’t remember the last time he used it for other than browsing… two messages tick unread since the last time he had check. Left on read, he can’t remember why…

Checking in, dropping himself to the cushioned bench, he reads over the prior conversation. A short chat, five messages exchanged between; he tosses it back to the ottoman where it rests beside the arboriform sapling. The thing that draws his attention as he sighs, brows turned cross as he stares at the never-ending glow of white. If he can keep it alive, it will keep shining.

The orbiter shifts as the weight of the liset departs.

His face twists into a small scowl, leaning down upon his knees as he stares at the white foliage and where it had enraptured the handmade stand with the wind of small sprigs. The plant he had carved off of infested bark now long ago salvaged, how long has he had it now? He can’t really much remember as his mind recalls instead the squeak of the fiberous flesh. The carving of rot damaged tissue that took several washings of his gloves to remove. The blistering stench of infestation that clung to his clothing in their spores and shaved flakes.

Looking between the divide of winding whorls, he looks to the distant sky transposed on the false window display, where the white foliage bends around like the void lashing on the Zariman so long ago.

“What are you even considering,” returns that same old voice, the one that echoes at the back of his mind as he stares out into the distance.

Eyes focusing back to the arboriform glow, his hands wring out between his knees.

“I don’t know.”

“You are aware your talking to yourself.”

“I am,” Warren sighs, a hand pulling up towards the base of his neck, fingers prying against it with another heaving sigh. “I just… don’t know if I should say anything, you know?”

“Why should you? You know it won’t matter, it’ll be taken and thrown away, just like before.” It oozes like poison around his throat, as Warren raises his head to stare at the jarred white. “You don’t want to go through all that pain again, do you?” His void echo hisses, baring down against his back as if it persisted as an invisible weight – and Warren hand finds nothing when he searches.

“No,” the tenno snarls, “but I just… I don’t want to hurt dad. I’m so afraid of fucking up but I don’t want to disappoint him by not going along with him on missions.” His voice is laden with sorrow as his head falls back between his arching shoulders, hands falling upon opposing elbows, hands prying against his skin. He worries – he’s talking to himself, no one sane enough would talk to themselves, right? Essentially having a voice in the back of his head.

Has Suuir said anything about it to T’viska…?

It spurs another spark of anxiety that crawls through his spine, barely even glancing up to the arboriform before him.

“What do I even do,” his mouth twists, eyes squeezing shut as fingers file through his tussled hair.

“Wouldn’t it just be easier to just, disappear…?” the echo hisses. “All they wanted from you, they’ve used you, right? And now you don’t want to be a burden; don’t you hate that?

“What even kept you alive throughout all those years – the orokin, they never cared, that was as all a lie.

“What did they call you – a demon, a monster, an asset – what’s to stop that from happening again?”

Against his temple his palm presses, rubbing against his skin as he remembers the sensation of dunking into the somatic cradle – the sharp chill that enveloped him after so long bared under brilliant white.

Chilling – inviting – the taste of freedom that carves through his thoughts.

An eye slips open, staring up at the plant before him. “Isn’t there anything warm inviting in that plant, something that draws you in…?”

“It’s comfortable… isn’t it…?”

“The Zariman…” splashes of void energy lashes against the hull.

“The rush of vicious thunder bright, the warmth it gave…” rippling radiation heat penetrates the hull.

“The comfort of the enveloping black beyond the pale,” and darkness cuts across the screen in the back of his minds eye, sat upon his father’s shoulders.

Try as he must… Warren can’t even remember his father’s face.

Hard pressed to even consider himself a person anymore… was that man even his father at this point?

“What was going to be beyond that….”

“I don’t know,” Warren holds his skull, resting his head against his arms and down onto a knee – his other is bouncing when his eyes eventually fall open again.

“I shouldn’t say anything,”

Warren can’t tell which part of him says it. Uncertainty laces his judgement; he shouldn’t be so hasty; he briefs himself as he looks back to the white sprout. But he wants to be certain before he says anything… he barely has the strength to even judge his rattled emotions as he offers a hand towards the foliage, bare fingers grazing along a healthy branch.

And yet, the void continues to cling in the back of his mind – what does it feel like, outside the mask…?

 

 

Silently, Warren continues to scroll through the datapad.

Boots kicked up on the silent console of T’viska’s liset, the teenager’s omnipresent sight peers through the somatic link to where his father sprints, running their current recon mission. Third of six, he reminds himself as he pulls back to his own vision even as his somatic implants continue to glow – still connected to the loki’s signal even as they glance back to the device settled on his lap. A single gloved finger slides along the mere hint of the display, stopping just beneath a dark image that scrolls up. An image interpretation, an overlay of radio waves, where the faint outline of ships lingers imprinted on the sky.

The void.

Warren’s eyes turn to the text listed beside it, corpus, long translated by Suuir when the tenno still had interest in the connection of the void and the somatic cradles he had been made all too comfortable with – until he had the choice to never again use one. A hand itches at the back of his head as he looks through the stolen document, an instance report of a corpus military vessel that had been swallowed as it reportedly tried to reverse engineer an orokin cruiser – vanished.

Somehow, the ship came back, but all the crew were gone.

“Don’t you wonder what happens when someone’s dunked in?” that voice speaks again as he scrolls through the instance report, of how the expedition crew set aboard found it riddled with gore. Reported; they crew knew what they were dealing with, it came with the risk.

Risking something even know they may die…

Warren bites his lip as he glances back through the somatic link; just another courtesy check he’s sure to make every few minutes to keep the connection firm – when he can remember.

Not that it much matters now as he watches the loki duck into a separate ship, half in and half out, their specific contractor that wants direct information. The teenager doesn’t tap into the warframe’s auditory systems as he retreats to the datapad once more, scrolling again through the corpus report.

This wasn’t the first time it had happened; it later notes.

It’s not long before T’viska is ducking his way through the ramp in the back of the liset, a hinge grinds behind them as it fusses back into position. “Gonna need to check that when we get back,” the loki sighs as he drops himself into the pilot seat, taking no time to bring the ship back to life. “Think something got stuck in the gear, that or something splashed up and froze itself good in there.”

“I can check once we’re at the next point,” Warren pipes up as he hides the datapad’s display from T’viska, settling it between his side and a flap of his jacket.

“Nah, that’s not necessary,” T’viska leans back into the seat as he throws on the safety belt, letting Suuir carry them to the next set of coordinates – to their next contract. “It’ll be fine until we get home, so we can look at it and also do something about the damn thing,” he huffs, palm massaging around his neck with a full body sigh. “Next one is a sabotage, a few klicks off this way, shouldn’t take to long to hammer out these last few before we get back to the ship.

“In all likelihood, I’ll need you to remain on standby. Usually it’s a two-man crew that would pull off something like this but,” he glances over to where Warren had sat back into his chair, “I’m sure we can both pull it off no problem.”

The teenager’s brows pull tight, “what sort of sabotage is it…?”

“Power destabilization; there’s a facility going up for resource processing, it’s a side facility for that Jupiter project I’ve been telling you about… why the Corpus are so interested in those black-market deals.”

Warframe parts, body parts refashioned into a Corpus proxy.

Silence stains the air; T’viska huffs, “I’ll call when I need you, alright, kid?”

Warren nods. “Alright.”

 

Boots resound on chilled corpus metal.

Sprinting through the skeleton of the facility, Warren runs. He heaves the power core against his side, hands aglow with the breath of the void as his warm breath steams past his face, through the snarl of his bare teeth as his eyes bounce around his surroundings – no crewmen in sight, the only danger lies in a shield osprey he’s sure lost his tail.

Skidding over the carved ice, sliding down the short tunnel that connects to a lower junction of the reclaimed wreckage half buried, he stops short of falling on his ass with a quick readjustment from the heel of his boot. A brief skip to avoid losing his momentum, he avoids the guide rail that sits with a marker – eyes following the electrical wire that hangs along the wall. His only direction towards the direct power unit.

“Found it?” speaks directly into his ear, followed by a grunt – middle of a fight.

“Almost!” The teenager gasps as he nearly avoids impacting his ribs on another rail, rolling himself over one leg at a time as heat radiates further down the hall. His boots easily find the puddles of water and the tubing that’s used to drain it. A warmth that makes he shrug off the flaps of his jacket as he storms up the steps, shoulder his way into the room where the wiring connects.

Finding himself face to face with a crewman.

The power core drops to the floor – it was taking up so much of his concentration. Warren doesn’t even blink as he punches in the corpus respirator, where the metal bends inwards to follow through from the void imbued impact. It’s the concise shockwave that blows the stranger back a little more than a meter away, laid out stunned, flux rifle thrown across the room.

Warren hisses as he shakes his fist, flinching as his knuckles begin to bleed against the bright surge of blue and yellow energy. But he doesn’t give himself the chance to recover as he scrambles back over to pick up the power core, heaving it back up against his stomach as his eyes bolt over to where it needs to go – the current power core still sits, Warren curses. And he runs over, shoulder pressing against the side of the machine as he sets the heavy power core filled with ill orange fluid – coagulant, it’ll gunk up the systems for a long while.

And, as his hands glow again, he yanks the current power core out, tossing it off to the side in a single sweeping motion.

And those same hands scramble to heave the laden core up into the braces, hitching it into place at the base before he puts his entire weight behind it.

And pushes, his hands slamming into the machine as the core snaps inside.

“Cores in!” Warren calls over the transponder hooked around his ear, flinching as he glances down to where he’s torn up his gloves, where blood seeps from where they’ve been shredded in the void blasts.

“On it,” speaks through against his ear as his head whirls around, seeing where the crewman has started to scramble back to his feet.

The flux rifle.

Warren kicks it away as he rounds over to where the crewman is struggling with his respirator, crawling backwards and up against the wall as the teenager runs past – he needs to make it back to his dad, back to T’viska.

“They’re just people, like you,” Warren shakes his head; that voice again.

“Pesot!” he can hear the corpus echo as he runs back along the path, through the remains of former wreckage and the carved ice floes that have grown around them. His heart hammers in his chest as he rolls his legs over the railing he almost hit on his way to the core, skidding in just the same way he had as when he was making the descending sprint.

But the ice fights him as he struggles to make his way back up the incline, his thick boots struggling to find footing in the sheet of white, yanking on the cord that has been dug into the top level.

“You!”

Warren head whirls, and he recoils back into the liset’s seat, crunching himself over to the side as the datapad drops down to the floor, breath hissing as warm blood leaks through his fingers.

His eyes squeeze, pulling his gloved hand away enough to see it covered in blood – his blood.

His hand slams back against his shoulder as his arm hangs limp against his side, where his numb fingers curl against the cold siding as he fights to bring himself into concentration – the transponder still against his ear.

The warframe – his father, growls in anger.

“FUCK!” Warren kicks at the control stick in front of him as he lashes out, kicking against the console with his thick boots as he continues to recoil to the pain blistering through his shoulder. “FUCK! DAMNIT!” His eyes welt up, mouth twisting into a snarl as the cauterizing shot digs into the muscles of his shoulder, into his bones and tendons as void energy begins to surge through his nerves – his somatic sight disconnected – disconnected from his father that he further persists as his bloody and yanks the transponder form his ear, throwing it down at the console as he hisses once more, cowering against the pain and the prickling heat that surges from within.

“Fuck,” he cries, hesitation chokes him.

He’s done it again, hasn’t he…?

Once more he weakly kicks the console in front of him, boot left against the surface as he does his best to cradle his wounded shoulder, gasping and flinching as the pain courses through each void pulse – the healing radiating wave that beats in tune with his heart.

Warren can’t bare to look through his somatic sight, his implants flicker in his eyes.

Even as much as it hurts, he has to know.

HE HAS TO SEE.

T’viska in stumbling against a wall as his cloak dissipates, spreading blood from golden claws, as he braces himself against the wall, and pulls back into the cloak. Wounded, his right arm ringing difficult as he stumbles back to the console he once stood at before – top side, where he had been distracting the Corpus away from where Warren was to insert the power core.

The loki’s arm hangs limp at his side, deep purple blood oozing over the bronze scarred pelt.

Warren yanks himself back within the liset, curling himself into a ball as he can hear the loki screaming through the transponder he had thrown onto the dashboard in front of him. Calling for him, shouting his name as the teenager flinches, cradling his arm against his side, tears splitting down over his cheeks as he fights them with the sleeve of his jacket.

“Useless,” the echo hisses, crawling through his throat as Warren glares at the fabric of his pants, knees bent up, heels digging against the edge of the seat. “Don’t you fucking hate it?”

“Shut the fuck up,” Warren growls, “You don’t fucking know me.”

“Jacob, I AM YOU.”

His eyes squeeze shut, head hitting back against the cushion of the seat. Once, twice…

Five times, until the pain begins to overtake the agony that hangs in his shoulder.

It presses his eyes fused shut, by tears and anger he holds himself contained, barely acknowledging the blood that drips down his open wound, where the warmth flows down his jacket…

And once more, he wonders, what does the void feel like…?

The hot, burning lashing that’s well overcome by the cool and inviting comfort that he had once experienced dunked into the somatic cradle the first time he was coaxed inside – a sensory deprivation tank to tune his implants – they’ll make him better – they told him.

“They lied.”

“Orokin always lie to get what they wanted,” Warren hisses back, “they got what they fucking wanted… cast to the void, all of them.”

“What is the void, if it’s not just death…?”

“I would like to see the other side, and wring their fucking necks,” the tenno growls. “I survived it before, but I will fucking do it again if I have to. Just to see if it unfucks this shit, unfucks you from my fucking brain.”

The echo never returns.

“You hear that!” He screams, “leave me the fuck alone, you hear me?!”

Silence.

Warren kicks the console again. “FUCK!”

 

T’viska stumbles himself back onto the liset, ducking under a structural support beam as he works himself to stand upright again – unable to use his right arm in any capacity as blood still seeps. “Warren, are you alright?” He pants as he tries to scrape up the medical supplies in one hand, trying not to stain it with his blood as he sets it onto the console – inside his optical sensors he calls to Suuir, ‘take us back to the ship. Warren’s hurt.’

“Hey, kid,” his voice is dry as he tries once more, leaning against the central console to brace himself as the list begins to ascend. “Lemme see your shoulder; you’re bleeding a lot.” He glances to the dashboard, where he sees the transponder thrown and bloodied.

The only movement that registers is the flicker of blue eyes glancing up before staring back into the pant fibers, knees pressing his left elbow against his chest. Warren keeps himself held tight; dejected, numbed, his sight rings in disassociation as he stares past the realm of the physical – anywhere else but here, anywhere else but here… tears sting the teenager’s sight.

T’viska pulls the seal off the gauze with his teeth, spitting out the wrapping onto the floor. “Hey, Warren, talk to me,” there’s a sharpness to his voice that makes Warren flinch – the warframe’s features scrunch.

Fear, fear in how the tenno will respond to further pressure.

“H-hey,” he struggles to speak as he sets down the gauze, moving to the teenager’s other side where the space is much more limiting – though the warframe is aware the chairs can turn all the way around. “Please let me see it. Warren you’re bleeding a lot – that’s a lot of blood,” he doesn’t even try to pry the gripping, void imbued fingers away from the teenager’s shoulder, but he does try to press fingers between palm in shoulder.

Anything to get a response.

Anything would do at this point, as he can feel the teenager drift further into despondency.

“Come on, kid,” he suppresses his tone, scared that anything slightly higher would make the teenager flinch – he hates that reaction, the reactional fear.

He tries once more, his own stained claws trying to work themselves between body and wrist… and fails to get a reaction.

Slowly, he pulls his hand back, curling into a fist as his right arm continues to motion limp. T’viska leans against the back of the chair as Suuir calls out the distance between the orbiter and the liset – another thousand kilometers.

The warframe’s mouth is drawn into a clench, expressive eye-slits breathing open as he forces himself to step away, dropping into the pilot seat – his arm smacks and hangs off to the side, clavicle busted. He takes a moment, left hand curling up against his horns as he leans away, barely out of ear shot. “Please, don’t hate me…” creaks from him.

And Warren, out of sight, flinches. His fingers pull against his wound, glancing over to where his father sits quiet.

T’viska can feel the echo on his transferred injury – a mirror of the damage done to the teenager’s shoulder; yet deeper. He punches his knee in frustration.

 

Beneath his tank top, the bandaging holds tight around his chest.

Warren stares out to the distant imagery played on the holographic display, a scenery that at one point he had enjoyed… a glimpse of a beach, where the ocean currents ebb and flow as audio plays overhead. Leaning upon his knees, his distant glassing sight doesn’t leave it – even as his attention has turned towards the somatic links that stand a door away, watching in disassociate curiosity. Kiln wrapping T’viska’s wounded limb – even after the loki had tried to protest.

He doesn’t understand – not their exchange – but he doesn’t soak in their exchange between them as he only hears the motions of sounds, as his body only breathes, only sighs as he tries to ignore the terror digging into his chest. Tries to ignore that he’s already gained mobility in his shoulder again as he shifts his weight from one knee to another.

“It’s a waste, isn’t it…?”

Warren doesn’t care.

“There’s no use, is there in all of this…? To keep fighting the same old battles.”

Warren doesn’t care.

“You can’t keep struggling like this, fighting the same old emotions, the same old trauma; you won’t ever stack up ever like before – when you were just an ASSET.”

The teenager’s mouth twists into a snarl – ignoring the fact of his face was already in a permanent snarl, where skin was torn free by the mask used to punish him, to keep him subservient. That’s all he was good for… wasn’t he? Just a tool to use for war, thrown away when the conflict ended – left to wallow in the trauma in a system that made no sense.

His sight glances to the arboriform sat before him on the ottoman; where it still thrives.

Even after all it’s been through, a tuff on a ship infested, it still managed to grow.

“Unlike you,” bites.

Behind him he can hear the door to the room slip open – and through his disconnected somatics can tell who’s approaching.

T’viska.

“Hey,” the loki briefs as he sits at the teenager’s side.

Warren says nothing.

Silence hangs between them as they sit on the cushioned bench, their bandaging nearly matching over the sympathetic wound, the simultaneous infliction nature of a transference wound. Except the warframe’s arm lies suspended in a sling – just until his body can reconnect the nerves.

“I was… I think it may be best to finish up the rest of the set with Kiln, get those out of the way while your shoulder heals up.” T’viska looks over to his adoptive son.

Nothing. Warren continues to stare at the plant. “He’s abandoning you,” seers in the back of his mind.

“It’s been growing really well,” the loki smiles, “might be about time to get it a new container, see if we can transfer it –”

“No,” whispers from Warren. “Just… can we leave it for now.”

“It’s running out of space… I don’t know how they work but,” T’viska pauses.

“You’re expendable.”

“It might do it some good,” the warframe continues. “Whatever you’re comfortable with, Warren.”

“He’s appealing to you, like they did, the guards.”

Warren continues to stare at the arboriform – he’s so tired.

“Aren’t you tired of all this…? Won’t it be easier to just -

Disappear?”

Warren jumps when a hand pats at his back, jolting him out of his dissociative static.

“Oh, sorry,” T’viska pulls his hand back, “I didn’t mean to startle you…”

“That’s a lie.” Warren can hear the words threatening to creep up his throat –

He wishes his father would just go, leave before he can say anything he would regret.

“After all this heals up…” the warframe pauses, then rounds an arm to pull Warren in a partial hug. “Think you’ll be able to talk all this over…? When you’re comfortable, of course.”

“Sure…”

“He’s going to abandon you.”

“I’ll be back in a few hours,” claws ruffle through the teenager’s hair, furling it more than it already has in its natural curling state. “Get some rest, alright? I’ll see if I can hit up a relay for some of that street food you like. How’s that sound?”

Warren’s features barely shift as he glances over to where the warframe has leaned up on the bench beside him, only leaning on the surface that makes the backing. Not even a smile breaks his face, only the sad, distant, frown. “I’d… like that.”

“It’s a deal then,” T’viska sighs, “I’ll bring you a whole rack of them – Kiln will point them out for me.” He steps away.

Once more Warren sits resigned, barely acknowledging as T’viska steps back into the halls of the ship, to finish the missions they had started, the missions they had to put on pause to deal with his fuck up…. His fuck up in getting himself shot.

And it leaves Warren alone.

So very alone as he feels the orbiter shift.

“I’m not worth anything… am I…” His head falls between his shoulders, thoughts returning to the embracing coax of the void.

The warm white invitation… the soothing endless black that welcomes him.

Against the back of his skull, his fingers dig through hair.

And cries.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is not the complete end for Warren's pre-clan story line! Two stand-alone portions still remain, however they are both going to be their own works, with their own tags and warnings to fully wrap up the emotional roller-coaster that is this strained paternal relationship.
> 
> Many of the emotional aspects reflect my own experiences; either as subjected to emotional turmoil or working to try and amend past trauma in a self-to-self manner, as emotional regulation is a difficult thing when one goes without any sort of support system. It's cathartic, in it's most basic form, to understand personal trauma from an external point of view to be able to say 'its okay' and 'it does eventually get better, even if the road is hard.' Though truly, where this portion ends, it doesn't seem like it - but after the following parts, they will. Life always has stumbling blocks, and sometimes, the best way through is to brute force it.

**Author's Note:**

> -+- Kudos, sharing, and comments are encouraged! -+-


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